Machiavelli's sheep.

To escape from the threats of global violence being emitted from the
morning radio, our dodgy plumbing, and, as a consequence, my partner, I
went for a peaceful ramble up into the Abergaffynny Hills. The going
was difficult at the valley bottom as the rains of yesterday had turned
the fields into a wet mulsh, but the higher ground was dry. Up on the
tops I came across a group of shaggy sheep grazing placidly in a field,
and something remarkable happened. Maybe I have been living in rural
Wales for too long, but I suddenly found that I could understand their
bahs. One of them said in high-pitched sheepish:


'What's that coming? Is it the shepherd?'
another, deeper, voice chipped in
'No, you silly ass: it's a silly ass.'
'Oh, yes, so it is.'


Their heads simultaneously lowered as they went back to
munching wet grass. I swallowed my indignation at this insult, and
walked towards them


'Hello' I said in sheep-ish. Instantly all their dull eyes
turned my way.
'Fancy that', said a sheep, 'It can talk! I never imagined they could
do that.'
'You live and learn.' said another.
'I don't,' said a mournful voice. The others ignored her
haughtily.


One keen sheep, I will call her Dolly, came over to look more
closely at me.
'Are you a shepherd?' she said.


I rejoiced at the first inter-species communication that the
world had ever seen, and tried to make small talk.


'No. I'm not a shepherd. Greetings from humanity!'
Dolly turned her head back to the others.
'Told you. He's not a shepherd.'
They chorused:
'Oh well. No-one's perfect.'


'Tell me.' I asked 'What are you all doing?'
'Munching spike-grass' said several voices at once.
'No, this is spear-grass' said Dolly.
'What's the difference' I asked as politely as I could.
'Spear grass is longer, more mature. It tastes richer.'
'How many types of grass are there?'
'More than three. I know them all.' said Dolly.
'Yes, but how many exactly?'
'Our number system only goes up to three.'
'Only three?'
'We can only make limited number of words using bah, we need most of
those words to describe the types of grass.'
'What do you do all day? Munch different types of grass?'
'Yes, but we wait for the good shepherd, too', they all
said.


I knelt down by Dolly.
'You have a shepherd?'
'Oh, yes. We love him' she said.
There were numerous voices raised in emphatic agreement.
'How nice. Where is he?'
'He is always watching. He will come if the wolves come.'
'Are there wolves round here?'
'Oh yes, three of them. They come and gather round us fiercely.'
'Really?'
'Yes, they would rip us with their teeth, but the good shepherd always
comes and shouts at them, and stops them from attacking. That is why we
love him.'


I was beginning to get a funny feeling.
'You're not talking about sheep dogs are you?'
'I don't understand your terminology, sorry.'
'Sheep dogs, the things you call wolves?they belong to the
shepherd.'
'That's not true. They attack, and he comes and saves us!'
'No no! He uses them to control you?'
'Sacrilege!' said Dolly.


She butted me agressively, and I was subsequently chased off
the field, and over a convenient fence, by all the irate sheep. What a
great way to control a population, I thought, as I walked slowly and
soggily back home.


Copyright Mike McCulloch