I’m Feeling Sheepish

I know a lot of you have “sheep shearing” high on your bucket list. Totally understandable. We all want to see where those twenty-bucks-a-pair Bombas socks come from. And, of course, the origins of our beloved shag carpets. 

A great place to witness our wooly friends becoming unwooly is New Zealand, a country with far more sheep than people. No one knows exactly how many, because every time residents try counting sheep, they fall asleep. But, according to the latest statistics, there are about 4.5 sheep per person. Which means for a family of five, you need a very large apartment with really good ventilation. 

I learned a lot about sheep on “A New Zealand Odyssey” a 16-day Road Scholar trip. I know what you are thinking, how did I qualify for a scholar trip? Simple, I lied on the application.

Our coach pulled up to Real Country Farm just outside Queenstown and we hopped off into bright sunshine. Then we hopped back on to put on more clothes. If Mark Twain had ever visited New Zealand, he might have said: “The coldest winter I ever spent was early summer on the South Island.”

Which is why you want 4.5 sheep to cuddle with at night – even if they do monopolize the TV remote. “Oh, come on! ‘All Creatures Great and Small’ again!”

Our Real Country Farm instructors told us all about being in the sheep industry, which is even harder than being a writer. For instance, all sheep need to be sheared, so large ranches have to hire groups of professionals. Otherwise the sheep get so large you can only fit three to a paddock and the sheep herding dog keeps disappearing. 

There are two main types of sheep in New Zealand, leaders and followers. Just kidding, they are all followers. The two kinds are Merino (sweaters) and Romney (carpets). Today, we were going to witness a Romney getting sheared. Our instructor went to get a sheep. We sat there expecting her to lead it back in with a rope, but instead she dragged the sheep in on its butt, her arms under the front legs and the hind legs splayed out behind it. 

“If I keep its legs off the ground, it knows it can’t move so it stays calm. Then I can quickly shear it.” I asked if it hurt. “No, it’s just like you shaving.” 

I looked at my wife, who’s always been curious as to what I look like without my moustache. She was writing this technique down on the back of our itinerary and drawing a picture of me with my legs splayed out. There were other couples on our Road Scholar tour and several of the wives were also writing this down.

The shearing went well, and we all got to grab a handful of the future throw rug, as our instructor dragged the much thinner sheep away.

Next we had a hands-on whip-cracking demonstration. They explained, as we lined up with copious space between us, that rather than leather at the snapping end, it was just cloth, because you didn’t need to hit the animals, just scare them into moving. Again, Pat wrote this down with a sketch of me doing housework. 

“The other reason the whip end is cloth is so if you accidently hit yourself, it won’t hurt as much.” Immediately after she said this, I hit myself. True enough, the welt on my arm was far less than other welts I had accumulated over the years. One of the wives in our group quickly mastered the technique and was cracking the whip every time. I looked at her husband and he was mopping his brow, even though it was about 16 degrees Celsius. 

We also got to watch a sheep dog work a small herd, rounding them up and quickly bringing them from the far end of the pasture to much cheering and baa-ing. 

Finally, they put us into a pen with a bunch of animals and gave us handfuls of pellets to feed them. I really hit it off with a llama named Dolly.

We thanked the instructors, boarded our coach, and headed to lunch. Being part of a working sheep farm for an hour sure builds an appetite.