Page 19 - SuperCowboyFlipBook

not underfoot,” he says, handing me a pitchfork. I love to wander down the aisles and stop at the pens with the newborn lambs. If I stay there too long, the mother sheep stamps her foot and baas to warn me not to get any closer. Some are more temperamental than others. Sometimes I climb up on the fence to get a closer look at the nursing lambs. As they drink, their little tails wag, like they are caught in the feather picker. I had only had Tippy about a month when I heard the baaing of sheep. Before I went to bed that night, I looked down the road, and sure enough, the lights were shining brightly. The next morning, as soon as we finished chores, I was on my way. When I got there, I wandered among the sheep pens, looking at the newborn lambs. I stopped at one and climbed up on the fence as I always did, but this particular ewe didn’t like it. She rammed the fence, which caused me to lose my balance and flop on my back in the aisle. When I looked up, there was Old Mr. Brown. Mr. Brown was what my dad called a “salty sheepman.” He uses more interesting words than anyone I know. One day, last year, I had gone to visit the sheep camp with Albert, who is just older than me. When we came home, I used some of the words I heard Mr. Brown say. My mother’s face turned red, and she washed my mouth out with soap. “She’s a darned old bossy thing, isn’t she?” Mr. Brown said, as he pulled me to my feet. “She’s a might bit protective. She could take on a wolf pack and kick their furry butts to the Arctic. She’s a dang good sheep, though; always gives me at least two lambs.”