Sheepdog

We were recently down at Sherrif and The Bunqueen’s farm, basking in the bucolic glow of early spring. Jed was in the garden attempting to eat a grapefruit tree, when we realised there were some highly pregnant/borderline explosive sheep on the farm track, just beyond the garden’s stone wall.

Since I was . . . sitting, Andrew . . . volunteered to go and shut Jed in the car. Sherrif and The Bunqueen politely demurred, but our dog is still extremely enthusiastic in how he greets sheep. 

“No, no,” I said, idly watching Andrew call Jed over to the gate. “It would be terrible if Jed savaged one of your sheep. Then we’d be ignoring each other on the road or setting fire to each others’ sheds. Messy. And unnecessary.”

Suddently, a herd of sheep stampeded down the drive.

In hot pursuit – although we could only see the tops of his ears and occasional white of eye over the wall – was Jed at full tilt, a study of canine muscle and grace.

Three seconds later, in tepid pursuit, Andrew galloped into frame. Relatively speaking, he didn’t seem to be moving that fast, even though he was leaning slightly back, legs pumping.

In fairness, he might have been more a study of muscle and grace if he hadn’t been waving his arms around bawling incoherently at the dog, while wearing oil-stained overalls and unlaced boots.

But I suppose if he’d been running after the dog in a pair of socks and boxer shorts, our neighbours would definitely have set fire to our shed by now.

As it is, we’re all still on speaking terms.

Totally ignoring any double entendre

When Jed and I left the house this morning it wasn’t raining.

That changed.

At times I could barely see the trees at the verge of the road, although that may have been because my glasses were streaming. I was soaked through. Although sectors of me were humidly warm, my extremities were swollen and numb. My hair was plastered to my skull, apart from the occasional strand whipping me across the face. I was experiencing rising anxiety about how permeable my mobile phone was.

Halfway to Hakahaka Bay, Sheriff and The Bunqueen pulled up beside me. Sheriff wound down the window. Their car was warm; they looked dry and toasty and strikingly sane.

“You going to Picton?” I mumbled through blue lips.

“Hell, yeah; it’s Sunday! We’re going to get the papers and read them over coffee.”

Then they were gone in a puff of damp exhaust fumes.

I was just reflecting upon whether my cotton pants could feasibly retain any more water, allied with how much my life completely sucked, when I got a text from Husband: ‘Fancy a pickup?’

At that moment, I viscerally understood the meaning of true love.

Although it was another ten minutes before my life stopped sucking.