Not just one of the mob

Some sheep are just extra special. The wild and woolly life isn’t for them.

Originally foundlings, orphans, waifs, now they rule the house paddock. They’re ovine royalty.

Tuama-tutama is one of last year’s pet lambs. Recently he somehow injured a hind leg, the wound was flystruck, and hundreds of dollars and six weeks of daily dressings later, he seems to have made a full recovery.

His companion during his convalescence was Bullet, this year’s pet. And today they needed to be shorn.

Things are done a little differently for the pets. Not for them the hustle and bustle of the shearing shed. No “wham, bam, thank you ma’am” approach from a pro shearer who doesn’t appreciate their little individual foibles.

No, the pets get the personalised approach from the Boss himself, with me hovering close by, peppering the Boss with instructions on how they should be handled, minor panic attacks at any sign of distress or blood, requests for reassurance that he knows what he’s doing, and constant entreaties to be very, very careful.

I’m actually surprised he didn’t take to me with the handpiece.

The Ginger Biscuit shared my concerns. She also regards Tuama-tutama and Bullet as Very Important Sheep.

She joined me in monitoring their treatment, sharp eyed as an Animals Australia spy in an Indonesian slaughterhouse.

Some of what she saw made her hair stand on end.

Fortunately there was help at hand.

“Did I hear someone say a pet lamb was being manhandled here?”

The superhero known as Farmboy came to the rescue and distracted us both with his sheer adorability, before we found ourselves upside down the woolpress.

And the Boss was able to get on with the job.

As it happens, the pets didn’t seem too perturbed by their ordeal. Bullet didn’t even need to stop eating.