We’ve bought a few more sheep for the flock. Well, I say bought; we were given them by a 4-H farm in Stockholm. Little wretches with no real future in our output, where we want a certain size and beautiful skins. But everyone’s welcome. One spends her time with the young ewes and escaped today. She was on her own out on the road by the field. It’s very rare that just one sheep escapes. She was stressed out and wanted to get back in again, but couldn’t find a spot where she dared jump over or force her way through. We tried to corner her in the garden. She ran right past us. The second time I tricked her and she tried to jump right through me, so I managed to grab her in midair. That feeling of getting hold of a sheep that’s almost completely lost its wits was something I’d forgotten. It happened a lot the first year. The flock was small, which makes the individuals edgier and less stable, and more likely to escape. I miss it a little, frankly. I carried the sheep toward the fence. It was also a long time since I’d had to lift one over the fence. She’s small, probably the smallest in the flock. These days almost all our sheep are crosses with production breeds, which makes them meatier and by this point in September, to all intents and purposes, impossible to lift over a fence. I remember an old technique. I sort of jerk the sheep away from me with her stomach over the fence so she flies right over and lands on all four legs. That way she avoids injury. Though I don’t actually think sheep can injure themselves from such a low height, in some ways they’re like cats physically. But it feels mean to just toss them over into the grass like a sack of potatoes. You’ve got to have some manners.