The Shearing

Once in a meadow, there were many sheep. They grazed and played under the watchful gaze of their master, an old shepherd. The shepherd was so masterful, so wise, that he didn’t have to tend individually to each member of his flock. Everyday, he would climb and take his seat upon a hillock overlooking the wide green expanse of the meadow and set his gaze afar. He knew, loved, and had named, in his mind, every member of his flock. There was tiny Timothy, bleating around his increasingly annoyed mother while she grazed. There was the proud ram Simon, playfully locking his horns with Arnold, his brother- while a few ewes looked on with very… interested eyes at the sporting contest.
The shepherd was content. There were wolves in the forests, but he had half a dozen trained sheepdogs, out of eyesight. One bark from one of them, and the sheep would go rushing back into the safety of the fence. The shepherd chuckled, quietly. Sometimes it was hard to tell who the sheep feared more- his dogs or the forest wolves.

From the perspective of the sheep, however, life was slightly different. They looked at the old shepherd as some sort of God- who loved them, protected them and if necessary, disciplined them. The sheepdogs, they thought of as angels- slightly scary but playful angels, nonetheless. Sometimes their barking would trigger in them a primal fear to run and seek shelter- but they felt, and somehow understood that it was all for their ‘good’. They were a happy flock.

Of course, the sheep couldn’t grasp the concept of an economy- for them, their purpose was to graze, be happy, and be guided by the shepherd’s dogs. As for the shepherd- he raised his sheep for their wool. The wool was sold in the local market, and that’s how he managed to feed himself, his dogs, care for the sheep… basically keep the whole operation flowing. The lives of the sheep revolved around themselves- their grass and each other. The dogs lived simply to obey their master. The shepherd, well, he cared for his flock (and himself). And life was good and merry for these happy few.

A few winters later, tiny Timothy had all but grown up and had a very majestic coat of wool on him- the envy of his family. By and by spring came and with it, shearing season. A first for Timothy. All the sheep were gathered together in front of the barn, where the shearers worked away with their scissors and clippers. Timothy had to get in line too. However, what he saw horrified him. One by one, the members of his family got into the barn, all healthy and woolly. But what came out did not resemble the fluffy white sheep that went inside. Not in the slightest. No, the… things that walked out were strange, alien looking, thin, emaciated animals. They had no wool. Timothy couldn’t grasp that these were in fact his own brethren, simply lighter (and possibly relieved) for having shed their wool. To him, they looked like naked, starving monsters. He watched in rapt horror as one by one, his brothers walked into the dreaded barn, and were (in his perception) killed off. Their woolly little lives… ended. 

However, Timothy too, was shorn. It was slightly more difficult. As the lead shearer pointed out, the first shearing is always the hardest. “These young ‘uns just resist too much. Of course, they can’t really help it- poor things.”

Once outside, Timothy felt a lot lighter. And a lot cooler. The balmy spring breeze tickled his naked skin and he bleated, content. Within a few minutes, he’d forgotten all about his wool, and was grazing away merrily.