The Ultimate Sheep Shearing Test

My test was imminent.

Pass or Fail. No average, no in-between grades.

The sheep shearers texted to say they would be here Friday afternoon, or maybe Friday morning.

The shearer’s life is always uncertain.

Traveling from ranch to ranch, watching the forecast, sleeping in a motel and eating meals from a host’s kitchen or wherever food appears.

The single source of certainty comes from the combination of sharp blades and personal skill.

Each shearer finds a rhythm in the muscle memory, repeated with concentration on the sheep’s position while watching the comb and blade lifting the hollow strands into a single continuous, lofty blanket.

The shearer doesn’t ask for much; just a steady stream of wooly sheep and maybe a meal.

Chocolate cake is a bonus.

I’ve sheared sheep before, enough to know the stretch of my hamstrings and the heft of a near-term ewe.

I’ve wiped sweat from my eyes with my forearm while holding the buzzing cutter in my hand.

I know how good chocolate cake tastes when my whole body trembles with exhausted muscles.

So passing shearing responsibilities to a traveling band with blades isn’t all bad.

Now, my only job is to transport the sheep into the shearing trailer.

I almost failed last year.

My temporary alley was too wide so the sheep stopped, tried to turn around and attempted every passive-aggressive form of resistance a sheep can think of.

My friends from Oregon were here to witness the disintegration of my temporary alley, comported from ancient wooden panels. The panels would have been a good idea if they had been two feet taller and less brittle.

They were neither.

A year later, my friends summarize their entire shearing experience with four words: “You are the gate!”

After all, my complete infrastructure had failed. All I had left was a human gate.

Our muscles trembled with exhaustion that night.

The shearers implied they would not come back until I had a new shearing alley ready and waiting for them.

Fortunately, I acquired a bunch of heavy-duty wire mesh panels last summer.

All I needed to do was mount them to sturdy posts at the correct angles so each sheep thought she might escape through the narrow alley.

The panels were too short. A sheep could peer over the top to discover a likely escape route.

I used yellow twine to tie thick boards above the wire panels.

My daughter, Abby, and I corralled the flock and tricked the lovesick ewe who refused to leave my gray horse’s side into the sheep pen.

Then I texted the shearers.

I was ready.

The sun shone brightly as trucks pulled down my driveway about 10 a.m.

The drivers got out to strategize about the mud in front of my alley.

They frowned. I encouraged them:

“You won’t sink out of sight. There’s a hard bottom under the mud.”

Their pickup spun out before the long trailer came even near the alley.

I jumped on the skid steer while the shearers put tire chains on.

They grumbled.

I bit my tongue. The mud had been far worse just a few days before. The sheep were ready.

A few boards and some rapid tire spinning got the trailer close enough.

Abby poked the first ewes up the alley into the shearing trailer.

Three friends crowded more from behind.

Cutters buzzed.

Wool fell into bags.

The wire panels held up.

Lunch didn’t burn.

The chocolate cake disappeared.

The lovesick ewe crawled back into the horse corral.

The horse twitched his ears.

I smiled as the shearers pulled out and shut the gate.

I had passed the test.