photo by Kelsey Nichols

Here is Jai moving a group of seemingly cooperative ewes.  It's a calm scene, to be sure.  The ewe you cannot see, the tiniest one in the middle – Number 44 – is a sinister beast.  Just as hateful and accommodating as a basket of rattlers.  Satan's little lambchop.  Emphasis on CHOP.  She wears her eartag low and crazy-like. She goes from sheep to EEP! in 15 seconds.

That she is in the middle and tiny is just part of her TRICKERY.  She is the same ewe that turned and chased Jai, and Kelsey's dog  Ewen, both this and the previous weekend.  She just snaps at some point, like she's channeling some sort of nasty member of the weasel family and turns on a dog.  Runs straight at them. 

That said, it happened in the perfect place this weekend for Jai to take charge of the situation and have Good triumph over Evil. 

We were at the pen when Number 44 turned on Jai, ran at her, and Jai hesitated, like her internal WTF o'meter was going off loud and clear.  Jai started to look doubtful, but I was right there and encouraged her to grip,

"Come on, Jai! Get her!"

And she did. A nice quick grip. Nothing too hard, or cheap, just a lunge at her nasty little face.  The sheep turned and went in the pen.  It was sweet.  Jai wagged and I wagged and Kelsey said Jai was her hero.

And I have to say she was mine also. 

We have probably learned all we can from number 44, though and now we'll avoid her.

Someday, though, we'll meat her under better circumstances. 
Number 44. Menu item number 44.