I had a pet lamb when I was in junior high. It wasn’t a project for 4-H, it was just a mutton-y creature I named Moochie. Moochie enjoyed eating grass and when she wasn’t eating, she was baa-ing and bleating. Moochie was smelly. Moochie was stupid.
My family packed up and took off for summer camp, leaving my father behind to work on the farm. We played in the lake and hiked around and did other campy things. At night, we looked at the stars and fell asleep in our bunks. My dad was back at home, sleeping peacefully after an exhausting day. It was a warm summer night in the Valley so he left the back screen door open. I think he was dreaming about sugar plums when he heard the noise. Someone was in the house. I imagine he grabbed one of the guns that resided behind the door and marched forward to assail the intruder with BBs.
Clomp clop. It was Moochie. She had rubbed the screen door open with her woolly body and walked into the house. She made herself at home. It must have been nice and relaxing for her, because she emptied her bowels all over the house as she explored.
I’m not sure what happened, but since it was 2 a.m. and my dad had just been roused to a house full of sheep feces, I don’t think it was very good. Now that I think about it, he must not have loaded the gun, because Moochie’s life would have ended there. Instead, her life ended a short time later, with no input from me. I’m still slightly disgruntled that she was done away with without my knowledge. My little sister informed me after witnessing a traumatic scene from her bedroom window.
People laugh at me for being a picky eater, but at my house you never knew who mom was going to serve up for dinner. Rest in peace Moochie.