Sheepish

Invariably, when John and I are on our way somewhere and are running late, a flock of sheep, 900 or so at last count, are blocking our way. On this last occasion we were headed home after a grueling day of fighting for the fastest queue for checking out at retail outlets, or parking spaces that weren’t located on the outskirts of another planet, way too many actually to even mention them here. So, on the way home in car number three that we hardly drive (told ya so John when you just had to buy that nifty Golf in perfect nick with low mileage), laden down with whatever we bought that John gets to lug into the house, save the huge feed bags, and that I get the honor of putting away, as my last official action today before my imminent collapse from being out and about in society…well within spitting distance of home, just another few minutes away and we run into the mob of just shorn sheep on their trek to another paddock of soft green grass to nibble on.
So, it never ceases to amaze me that whenever we’re in the slightest hurry before we collapse in a heap, or on our way out to an appointment, Murphy’s Law guarantees that we’ll be later than we expect arriving at our destination. But living in the country I’ve finally gotten used to all the time consuming and time wasting obstacles that crop up unannounced and unplanned (by us). And with a stoic shrug of our shoulders, we stopped rushing long enough to observe the passing parade of newly scalped animals that rushed around our car hither and thither on either side with determined purpose. After a day of hurrying up and then waiting for this or that, it was actually pleasant to jump off that merry-go-round, even for just a few minutes of gathering our sanity back before we got to our sweet little cottage surrounded by too many hungry chickens and three lonely cats that miss us whenever we venture out into the bigger world beyond our gates.
Although I cringe with eyes half shut when John drives through the sheep that seem to be rushing our car from both sides and barely survive being run down, we somehow always make it through the wooly ruminants, some of whom stop en route and grab a quick bite of delectable, and probably irresistible roadside weeds. All in all, I must commend John for managing to get through them and beyond to our hidey hole around the corner past the bridge over the little stream. Well done, matey. We made it home again.