When we began farming in the mid-nineties, and were preparing for our first lambing season with our large flock of sheep, we sprayed big red numbers on the flanks of every ewe to ensure that we would be able to identify any sheep having birthing or mothering problems.
Because I was teaching piano and violin from the farm, a number of my pupils’ parents who drove to our farm commented on what they saw as amateurish city folk painting graffiti on their sheep for a laugh.
One opinionative mother pointed, laughed, and said, ‘I suppose you think that each sheep knows its number and will come when you call it.’
I stood stony-faced and replied that each sheep, in fact, did come to its number. I then called out, ‘42. 42. Calling 42.’
The derisive smile on the woman’s face changed to one of astonishment when 42 separated herself from the flock and ran baaing to me for a pat.
‘See! I told you that they know their numbers.’ I didn’t tell the woman I had hand-reared that particular sheep and she would have come to the sound of my voice, even if I had shouted, ‘Get in the oven, we’re having lamb chops for dinner tonight.’
