Early 1960s I was stationed on a bomb dump near Penrith. Not too near obviously. It was four miles by four miles square. This large area was necessary for the storage of 25,000 bombs. Plus other explosive things. But this true story has nothing to do with bombs.
The Department of Defence had leased the grazing rights to a sheep farmer. The Danger Area was knee deep in the fleecey flockers. I don't remember how many there were but they were everywhere.
The NCO of a large shed left it open when he was summoned to HQ. A bleating sheep wandered in, with a little guidance and the flock surely followed, with a little herding. The doors were closed. When the shed NCO returned an hour later and opened his shed he was confronted with a flock of sheep, fetlock deep in manure, staring accusingly at him.
When the season or the weather is propitious the sheep manure promotes mushrooms. Fields of them. But that was the only good thing about sheep. So much for the background to the true story of The Demon Sheep---
Heather, toddler Julie and I had just moved into a rental house. I didn't have a mower but I had a large grassy yard. I tried to ignore the need to mow it but my wife complained that she was having trouble finding our daughter, Julie, amongst the luxuriant growth.
"Get the dog to fetch her." I said. Then necessity being the mother of inspiration, I thought of the efficient way the sheep on the Base kept the grass down. I could borrow a sheep! Not steal or rustle one, just borrow it until winter stopped the grass from growing.
How to borrow a sheep from the base? One of the drivers had to pick up something from Penrith railway station. I talked him into loading a sheep into the cabin of his truck. It was a bit of an effort. The sheep was not keen on the idea but we outnumbered him. The driver was pulling the front end of the reluctant beast into the cabin and a friend and I were lifting and shoving the back end of it. We were able to prop it up between the driver and myself. What I'm writing here is the honest to God truth. I put my beret on its head and we drove out the gate. The driver leaned forward and waved to the security guard who logged the truck's departure but not that of the sheep.
We drove to my home and dragged the beast out. It didn't want to get out. I don't know if it had been enjoying the trip and wanted more or feared what other indignity could be visited upon it. Anyway, with the driver and I pushing, shoving and swearing at it, it got the idea. We herded it in through our front gate, I climbed back into the truck and the driver drove off pretty damned fast. I think he was worried that my wife would explode out of the house and demand the removal of the sheep. Fortunately she was out.
When I arrived home from work, my wife was standing at the front gate, arms folded across her chest. She had a look on her face that I had not seen previously in our short married life. I rushed forward and hugged her. She struggled.
"Hi Heather, had a good day?"
"Good day? Come with me!" She ordered firmly.
I followed her around the house, in the back door and into the kitchen, "What's THAT!" She said.
I quickly assessed the situation. The sheep had entered as Heather had been walking out, brushed her aside and taken up a position under the kitchen table. Heather watched me wrestle the beast out and into the backyard. It was obvious that it had been in there for a while. It thought that it was an indoor sheep and did everything it could to get back into the house and under the table. And did a couple of times. We took to using the front door only. My wife was quickly losing her sense of humour.
Heather and I had a spirited discussion about the sheep - and a lot of other things.
Over the next few days we found that it preferred to eat Heather's flowers - not the grass. It would even head butt our dog which took refuge under the house. School kids heading home in the afternoon would open the front gate and guess what would follow them. Heather would chase it and bring it home to the cheers from the crowd in front of the Motor Registry. She was worried that it may get run over. At this point, I thought -good riddance.
We decided that plan A was a bummer and that I had to immediately activate plan B: return the bloody pest.
That plan was not without its problems. The truck driver, realising that he had me over a barrel, demanded half a dozen bottles of beer. The mission was accomplished with only one hiccup. We sneaked the sheep past the main entrance check-point with me leaning on it to hide it. The brute was objecting violently. But the security check into the Danger Area was far more stringent and risky so we drove up and out of sight behind the airman's car-park and dragged the reluctant pest out of the truck. It may have developed a taste for motoring around the countryside. We wondered if the sheep could communicate its adventures to its mates. And if its mates would believe it.
But that's not the end of the episode. Somehow the beast found its way to the Commanding Officer's personally approved and much admired rose garden in front of Headquarters which faced the entrance gates. The garden really was a thing of beauty and the first thing that visitors saw. But now it had a large, less than beautiful sheep methodically munching its way through it. Roses, floral borders and anything with a bit of colour was fodder for this hungry horror.
It had to be forcibly removed, it did not want to go. It seemed to have found its own piece of paradise. The C.O.was ruefully regarding his ruined rose garden when he summoned the Security Chief and asked him how he could allow a sheep to escape a secure compound like the Danger Area and let it land in his rose garden. The Security guards walked the sixteen miles of the Danger Area fence-line looking for breaches. After all, if one could escape, what's to stop the rest of them. The grass being greener ---
Here and now, sixty years later, most of the protagonists have passed away and the few remainingare doubtlessly demented. Only now could I reveal the true story of the wayward sheep.
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