Identity crisis

Even at midsummer of her first year, Lamb Chop was still small enough to squeeze in and out of the pasture gate at will. She preferred the company of humans, and she sought us out wherever we happened to be. Time after time, we returned her to the sheep shed or the pasture and firmly placed her inside, only to discover her standing outside the kitchen door minutes later. When the kitchen door opened, she bounded up the steps and forced her way into the house.

People have said that when I pulled Lamb Chop out of the haystack shortly after her birth, the newborn “imprinted” on me—in other words, she bonded with me almost as a surrogate mother. Though I don’t believe Lamb Chop’s was a textbook example of imprinting, she certainly did form a strong bond with our family. She simply didn’t believe she was a sheep. She used every trick in the book to escape from the shed or pasture and return to the human world where she felt she belonged.

Some summer days when Chris went to his friends’ homes to play, Lamb Chop moped around the yard until he returned.

On the days when Chris wasn’t around to keep Lamb Chop company, I tried to accustom her to staying in the pasture with the rest of the sheep. As she grew, it took all my might to push Lamb Chop back through the open gate. Once I had her bulk on the other side of the gate, I slammed it shut, fastened it, then turned and started back toward the house. Before I was halfway there, Lamb Chop had squeezed through the gate, raced past me, and disappeared around the corner of the house. When I reached the kitchen door, Lamb Chop stood waiting for me to let her in, as if she were a neighbor lady stopping by for a cup of coffee.

When no people were outside, Lamb Chop hung out with the dogs. She picked up many of their bad habits: the dogs had plenty of them, and they were more than willing to share. Before long, Lamb Chop was chasing cars right along with the rest of the pack. Lamb Chop was not as fleet-of-foot as the dogs, and she could never keep up with a car all the way to the end of the driveway. Her inability to bark was also a handicap in the car-chasing community. But Lamb Chop did her best, and she became quite adept at the dogs’ favorite sport.

When Lamb Chop wasn’t chasing cars, she was trying to squeeze herself into them. Few door-to-door salesmen were brave enough to open their car doors in the face of Karsey. But those who did found themselves battling a half-grown lamb that was struggling to get into their cars just as frantically as they were scrambling to get out.

Lamb Chop saw any open door as an invitation. She entered houses, cars, trucks, and travel trailers, shocking unwary occupants. And once inside, it was not easy to get her out.

My biggest concern for Lamb Chop was how she would cope when she grew too big to squeeze through the pasture gate. Terry’s words often came back to haunt me: “You won’t be doing her a favor by making a bottle lamb out of her.”

Lamb Chop would be devastated when she could no longer spend her days with people and dogs. When winter came, she would need to live in the shed with the other sheep for her own warmth and safety. The following spring she would be expected to produce a lamb and care for it responsibly, just like all the other ewes. Lamb Chop would soon be forced to rejoin the flock permanently, whether she liked it or not.