Flock

Someone I know once wrote “I am a baby mastodon.” I do not know what exactly it means. Perhaps that he is extinct, a white elephant unsuitable for these times. It may also point to a reliance on his mother. My guess is as good as anyone else’s, and probably is someone else’s.

On the other hand, I am but a sheep. I am not exotic; if there exists a living mastodon, people would pay hundreds to see it. Its enormously bucked teeth, its alien snout; its prehistoric atmosphere would rake in cash for the zoo that invested in it. As baby one, too, it may still retain features of adoration. Maybe the mastodon still holds onto large eyes, or disproportionate body shapes, that render it adorably cute and attractive to maternally minded women.

No, I am a sheep. I am normal and ugly and common and useful. Why am I fed such nutritious meal? Rutabagas and corn and sometimes bacon; I eat all of that so I breed wool. Animal fats puff my coat, so it can be spun more easily. High sugar concentration makes the fuzz easier to shear. I am given these privileges so that I may be sheared of my coat. I remain useful only as long as I have a coat; otherwise, why would I be needed? They’d slaughter me and feed me to the more useful sheep.

I am only a sheep. I look sheepish, just like all other sheep. I once took pride in my little fluffy tail, which happened to be black when the rest of my skin was white. But then I grew large enough to enter the big pen, where the adult sheep were herded, and I saw, in that crowd, one fluffy tail after another – and a lot of them much fluffier than mine! Well, then I began priding myself on the idea that I had a larger head than all the other sheep. That idea was dispelled as soon as someone procured a ruler, and thereby discovered that, in fact, the biggest head belonged to Manley Pointer. And he deserved it. But, luckily, I found out that of those who had fluffier tails than me, none had larger heads. But what does that mean? That I have a balanced combination of head and tail? But those two don’t do anything together; If only there existed something that needed both head and tails, but I’m afraid the coin can only land on one side, the disadvantageous side. In other words, both sides.

I am nothing if not a sheep. I go baa. That is the only sound a sheep can make: “baa.” At least babies both cry and laugh, we can only bleat. What do we bleat? That is a much less permanent question. I remember bleating “Napoleon is always right!” about twenty-seven years ago. It is always safest for me just to bleat what the others are bleating; otherwise, they may realize I’m not just another mouth of the flock. Sometimes the shepherd pokes me with a stick. I bleated then too, because the poking pushed the air out of my lungs, and I thought “I might as well do something with all that air coming out of my lungs!” I am a sheep. Congratulations. Yipee.

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