When I was a teenager, we lived on a smallholding. Along with our beloved cat, Shyboy, and four chickens, we also kept sheep. Strange as it sounds, we kept them as pets – they reminded my stepfather of his childhood on a farm. I remember all 16 of them, even the one or two lambs we sent to get slaughtered each year to keep numbers down. The rest stayed with us until they died of natural causes.
It was a gentle, hands-on lifestyle. The sheep were virtually domesticated, feeding from our hands and allowing us to pet them. All except one – Blossom, an absurdly curly, silver-wool Welsh breed, who never quite took to our ways.
