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By Root 922 0

the fence as though his paws were filled with helium, herd the sheep into a tight little bunch and move them, with his spooky eyes and creeping gait, from one side of the meadow to the other. He would then retire to a place under the front porch, where the wary passerby might or might not be warned by a rumbling growl before he sprang from the shadows to rip at cuffs and sneakers. Shortly before sundown he would sally forth once again, sail over the fence, and repeat the exercise, moving the sheep to a part of the meadow that he had apparently predetermined after twelve long hours of precise mathematical calculations. It was, they all had to admit, amazing to watch.

On the other hand, no one had counted on sheep, much less a psychopathic sheepdog, when they signed on the dotted line.

“It’s a farm,” Bridget insisted joyfully, “and what’s a farm without livestock? This makes us real farmers!”

Lindsay said in a tone that brooked no argument, “Maybe it makes you a farmer. I’m an artist. I don’t do sheep.”

“Sheep,” repeated Cici with a small shake of her head, still not quite believing it. “How could that possibly have slipped by me?”

“Isn’t it like real property?” offered Bridget hopefully. “You know, attached to the premises?”

Cici returned a look that said, Nice try. Out loud she said, “Windows are attached to the premises. Rosebushes, maybe. But sheep? I think that’s pushing it.” At Bridget’s crestfallen look, she added, “For heaven’s sake, Bridge, we don’t know anything about sheep! We’re city girls, and this is a huge responsibility.”

“I saw a movie one time about a sheep station in Australia,” Lindsay added thoughtfully. “The sheep would swell up like ticks from bloat and the farmer would have to go around puncturing their stomachs with this huge needle to keep them from exploding.”

Bridget’s eyes went wide, and Cici stared at Lindsay.

“What I’m saying,” Cici said, when she could tear her eyes away from Lindsay, “is that sheep can be delicate, and a lot of work. Don’t we have our hands full just trying to put this house back together? Are you sure you want to take on more?”

Bridget raised her chin. “I’ll take care of them,” she promised. “And the dog, too. They’ll be my responsibility. You two will never even know they’re here.”

Lindsay looked at Cici. Cici looked at Bridget. “Sheep,” she said, shaking her head again.

And Lindsay repeated, her tone heavy with resignation, “Sheep.”

Bridget immediately checked out every book on sheep and sheepdogs the library had to offer, and over the next several days was rarely seen without a text in her hand. Occasionally she would glance up to offer such arcane wisdom as “April is the best month for lambing in this region” and “A good sheepdog can work a 2,500-acre ranch all by himself.” But for the most part she spent her time completely immersed in the written world of animal husbandry.

It was therefore no surprise for Cici to come into the kitchen for lunch and find Bridget sitting at the island, hair pulled back against the heat, reading glasses on, lost in a book. Fresh-picked tomatoes were scattered across the island around her, and something wonderful was simmering on the stove.

Cici lifted the lid and inhaled the fragrance. “Smells divine,” she said. “What are you making? Pate?”

“Chicken livers sauteed with garlic and white wine,” replied Bridget, without looking up, “for Spike.” The dog had gone through three different names in as many days; Spike was the latest. “Farley said he loves chicken livers, but I can’t get him to eat anything I make.”

Cici replaced the lid on the pan. “I don’t think dogs are supposed to have wine.”

In the background, the sound of the backhoe had stopped, since today was the day the septic tank crew was laying pipe. But Lindsay’s sturdy riding lawn mower puttered on, as she was determined to get the entire front lawn clipped before the earth-moving equipment started up again.

Bridget said, sighing, “It says here it’s too late in the year to shear the sheep. But we’re going to have to have their hooves clipped or they’ll go lame.