“Remember the day Dad put you on the sheep?” asked my
sister.
How could I ever forget it? We were at my uncle’s farm, when
I was lifted up and gently lowered onto the fleecy seat. Without hesitation, the
placid animal turned into a live amusement park ride. Head down and breathing
hard it bolted away from the house and along the muddy paddock. Above all, it
was my mother’s wish that we always stayed clean. I knew it was to my peril
that I fell off and marked my clothes. It also might hurt.
With clumps of greasy wool in each hand, I tucked my knees
in and held on. With no steering mechanism in sight, I trusted that Lambie knew
where she was taking me. A leap here and a swerve there maneuvered us
 |
| Uncle Lindsay, had his farm at Nietta |
around
the occasional rock and large tuft of grass. We were really travelling.
Behind me, I heard shouts fading as my rescuers were left
far behind. They were never going to keep up with this pace. Through the
gateway we powered, Lambie taking a right turn to avoid the bog stirred up from
the hooves of 40 cows heading for the dairy. Spits of mud flew from her
pounding feet as she squelched her way up the slope.
With open country in front of her, she chose the most
unlikely option. The narrow doorway of the separating room invited her in and
she accepted. I had not expected to be steeple chasing but I flattened into a
streamlined position as we mounted the steps and tore through the room at a
pace. No cows were waiting at the bails as we passed, and hung a sharp left
into the waiting area.
Lambie did not slow down; I did. Through the rails she dived;
a drop of several feet to the ground. Indecorously I was siphoned off her back,
landing on the cement platform, my pride in tatters, but without a spot on my
dress.
These days, I choose other methods of transport.
