ROGER THE RAM; HIS STORY.
This is the Firstborn of the 2017 millesime, my fourth year at La Chaise. It is a boy, a very large, very active boy. I am well pleased as is his mother, one of my senior women. A good beginning to the Chinese year of The Rooster. (That little pest wakes us too early - hardworking, resourceful, courageous, my four feet!) But that Saturday morning I took his crowing as a salute to this Firstborn.
The First was born in a shed on straw, then confined with his mother in a small pen. My memory is that I was born in the open, some five years ago, on a moutainside in the Pyrenees, There might have been a roof over our heads, I do not remember. But my liking for unfettered space, varied grazing, is obviously due to the surroundings of my youth which nurtured my intrepid, exploring character.
Not long after my first anniversary, along with a couple of brothers, I was bundled into a very confined space on wheels, unloaded into another small space, given rather poor hay and some warmish water. Various people poked and prodded me, especially on the rump - tiresome. Then I was pushed into another closed vehicle for another long ride. Eventually I was pushed out into a field where I faced this:
Then, horrors! I was taken away from the flock and shut into a small space, stone walls, a drinking fountain, a sky light and a half door, barred and bolted. Food came twice a day, green hay, lucerne and a good mixture of ground cereals. But I was shut in. I did not approve and bellowed my rage.
I gave a few tentative taps with a foot where the bolt slid into the wall. I just knew that, with a good head butt, I could break it and get out. Out was where I wanted to be.
|Ram in pen.|
Once the people had seen we got on well together we were allowed out. But, doubtless mistrusting me, the people put us in the woods. Even if I had wanted to, there was no clear way to get a good run up behind a head butt. There's good eating in the woods, nicely varied, young ivy leaves, chestnuts, the leaves on low branches of the woodland trees, the odd spot of very tough grass.
|Tripatte and self in the woods - notice respectul distance.|
And so the last three years have passed comfortably. Tripatte no longer limps. The people insinuate that I may have dated one of my last year's daughters. Myself, I think it was Tripatte who dated one of his half sisters. There is no way of knowing. Tripatte - triplets....ovine genealogy is much more complicated than human.
|Here's Tripatte and me. Handsome fellers, aren't we?|