We live on a three-sheep farm.
At least, that’s what we’ve been repeatedly told. Our neighbor Yves, Marilyne’s sister, and various other rural French people have all told us that the amount of grass our land produces will feed three sheep comfortably.
But there would be requirements, like, actual farming requirements. Yves went on to explain that we’d need to subdivide the field into three sections, rotating the sheep so that two sections could grow as they ate up the third. He also volunteered, in due time, to throw our moutons on a spit and roast ‘em up. This caught me off-guard because every animal I’ve ever owned—and every animal I plan to own—has been or will be a pet. One does not eat pets.
Note that the French word for sheep, mouton, is the same word for sheep meat. (Mutton, in English.) I admire that the French don’t rebrand meat the way Americans do to avoid confronting the unpleasant fact that we’re eating animals. We call cow meat “beef” and pig meat has become “pork.” The French dispense with this kind of snowflake language. Even a calf is straight-up referred to as un veau, or “a veal.”
So, Yves’s offer was pragmatic even if I perceived it as slightly sociopathic given I considered our potential future sheep to be pets. Also, they would eat all of our grass so we wouldn’t need to tend to it. So, they’d be pet lawnmowers. But this is a farming community. People raise sheep to eat. They aren’t pets.
For a minute, we considered goats. But, just like in the cartoons, goats eat everything. They also constantly try to escape.
When we’re riding our bikes, we sometimes pass a goat chained to a post somewhere around Montdurand. He sits there staring at us until we’re within range. He then springs to life and charges. Every time, the chain yanks him back with a startled “LE BAH!” before he can get to the road—just like a crazy junkyard dog, only scarier because he’s a goat.
On the other hand, sheep tend to run in the opposite direction and they only try to escape when they run out of food. Also, everyone says they’re stupid, which seems like an asset for a farm animal, because stupid often equates to predictable.
That said, I don’t believe them stupid at all (#sheeplivesmatter). They’re just perpetually scared, their flight or fight instinct forever cranked to the flight side of the dial. And this fear causes them to make bad decisions.
I formulated this theory based by interacting with sheep belonging to our other neighbors, Manu and Elodie, real-deal farmers who also raise cows, chickens, and probably some other livestock. I’m not sure what though. It seems naive and pushy to request a Noah’s Ark roll call from your salt-of-the-earth neighbor.
Early one rainy morning a couple weeks back, Marilyne noticed from our bedroom window that three of their sheep had jumped a fence into our upper field. The irony of the number didn’t escape me.
I thought for a moment that maybe this was some sort of ordained twist of fate, but then I remembered that we’re in the middle of converting that field into an orchard. While I’m no expert, something tells me that pet lawnmowers versus fruit tree saplings would be one-sided fight, so I threw on a hodgepodge of sleepwear and vaguely water-resistant outerwear and trudged up to our kinder-orchard to wrangle the three sheep back into Manu and Elodie’s field.
Until recently, a massive wall of blackberry brambles separated our properties. However, in preparation for the orchard, last summer I cleared away those brambles, only to discover an ancient chain link fence underneath, mangled and rusty beyond use.
Delighted to find something new to destroy, I wrapped an iron chain around what was left of the fence and pulling it free with my tractor. The oxidized metal disengaged easily, twisting to the will of the tractor like a nylon fishing net and taking huge patches of bramble with it. I felt impossibly manly.
I summoned Marilyne to show off my highly masculine handiwork. More bemused than impressed, she pointed out that I’d opened a giant passage between the two fields and that our neighbors, being real farmers, actually kept livestock on their land.
We spent the next hour reconstructing a makeshift barrier with cording and wooden pallets—not an uncommon fencing option in Creuse. After we’d left for California, Manu reenforced our work with nylon webbing.
But that rainy autumn morning a fortnight ago, our combined efforts proved no match for three hungry sheep. They jumped it effortlessly. After all, jumping fences is a bit of a trademark move for sheep, right? How else would any of us sleep at night?
Upon seeing me, they bid a hasty escape, remembered the exact location of the weak spot in the fence. Their quick thinking supported my “scared not stupid” theory, but that didn’t bring me much solace in the moment. The biggest sheep had tangled herself in the fencing and was thrashing about wildly. For a horrifying moment, I thought I was going to have to wrestle with a 150-pound, panicking farm animal. Fortunately, she escaped before I got to her.
I retrieved a couple steel posts from the garage and reinforced the fence, making it about a half-meter higher. Could the sheep still clear it? I had no idea, but raising the fence seemed a farmerish thing to do.
Later in the day, Marilyne and I went for a walk only to discover that the same three sheep had escaped from a weak spot in a separate fence that I had neither torn down nor reinforced. It was at the top of a steep embankment that landed right in the street—another impressive escape for supposedly stupid animals.
Marilyne called Elodie as I commenced to sheep wrangling. Working from my perpetually scared theory, I steered them in the direction I wanted them to go, occasionally turning my back on them, standing perfectly still and pretending I wasn’t there so that they wouldn’t pivot and run in the wrong direction. Each time I looked away, they seemed to forget I existed, so maybe they are a little stupid.
Using this peek-a-boo method, Marilyne and I were able to corral them back to their exit point, where they gladly jumped back home. They were probably still hungry, but hopefully, this little adventure on the mean streets of La Villatte had scared them straight.
The Parisian with eight pet sheep.
A few years ago, a French music producer named Pascal bought a house in Crocq. He converted his garage into a public bar. I only drank there once, but it had nice ambiance. It was next door to the local bar-tabac, Bar de l'Esperance.
You’ll find at least one bar-tabac in most small French towns. They tend not to put much effort into ambiance, except for the occasional tractor calendar, because their main clientele, boozy old men, don’t really care about interior decor, as long as they can fraternize, drink, and smoke inexpensively.
Bar de l'Esperance isn’t a terrible bar-tabac. Obviously, it’s smokey and, as much as I prefer the smell of Gitanes over Marlboros, secondhand smoke has a global cancer passport. However, the owner is friendly in a surly sort of way, the interior features some nice faux-masonry, and the outside tables are pleasant on a summer day, if you’re in the mood for cheap beer or pastis.
It’s also the only bar in town since Pascal’s bar shut down—not counting the nun who sells tickets to the Tours de Crocq, two 11th century towers at the top of the hill that were probably part of a castle at some point. She also sells local craft beer on tap from her little outpost and she’s set up a picnic table on the adjoining lawn, which is by far the best place to drink beer in town, but I don’t think a lot of people know it’s there and it’s not a hotspot for boozy old men, given they don’t usually have the fitness for the steep, San Francisco-worthy climb to the towers.
Because Pascal is of North African descent, there are whispers that racism may be why he closed down. I don’t know if I believe this. To my eye, he looks no different than other swarthy southern Frenchman. I’m more inclined to point out that he dresses fancy, like the Parisian that he is, which can be off-putting to rural folks .
Also, Pascal opened and closed whenever he felt like it. Sometimes, he closed for weeks at a time when he was in Paris. As loose as rural France is regarding merchant hours, you can’t just close for a random month and expect people to come flocking back, especially if you’re in the early stages of establishing a customer base.
Last summer, he sublet his bar space to a guy who opened a “pop-up” crepe place. Tim - Bar à Galettes & Crêpes. I assume his name was Tim. It did well—and the crepes were great. But he had regular hours, posted on a sandwich board out front. Also, he sold crepes, making him the only restaurant in town.
The future of the creperie is uncertain; Pascal is selling his property, so nobody knows if the next owner will want to rent out the space. Pascal made the same farm-animals-make-good-pets mistake that I am on the brink of making, so among the personal effects he is offloading are eight sheep that live in the field behind his house.
Marilyne’s sister Sophie and her husband Felix became friends with Pascal so they tend to his flock when he is in Paris. Because Pascal seems not to a have an eight-sheep field, Sophie and Felix chase them down when they escape, which they seem to do with some regularity. Luckily, they have a habit of hiding out under a neighbor’s trampoline, so the hunt isn’t difficult.
Felix asked us if we want the sheep—Pascal is willing to give them away. It’s tempting.
I suggested he give them to Manu and Elodie to add to their flock, but they aren’t interested. They farm sheep for meat. Because these animals are seven or eight-years-old, they’re too old for that. Sheep live to twelve, so they’d still make good pets, but not good gigot d’agneau.
Entitled, Gen Z livestock.
This morning, we woke to discover those three damn sheep had not just escaped Manu and Elodie’s field, but gone on to find a hole in our upper field’s barrier. This was good news for our new apple and pear trees, but bad news for the onions in Marilyne’s garden.
I rugged up and went into our front yard. All three of them looked up at me defiantly, like, “Yeah, I’m eating your onions. What are you going to do about it?” (Only in French, of course.)
I shattered their rebellion by taking two gentle steps forward. The animals took off in terror. They leapt our wall; scrambled up the steep bank leading to an opening in the bushes that surround our upper field; galloped across the field, traversed an unfenced, narrow rocky ledge separating our property from Manu and Elodie’s; and, now safe, turned and resumed their defiant glares.
I’m not sure if even a cat would be capable of that level of recall, agility, and vertical leap.
Elodie showed up in a battered pickup truck as Marilyne and I were trying to figure out what to do next. She explained that she’s been battling these three for weeks. They’re young and extremely gifted when it comes to escaping, even burrowing under fences when required.
When Marilyne asked if they had enough to eat, Elodie explained that they had plenty. Given it was December, the sheep were now on a diet of cut hay, but these three youngsters were picky. They demanded fresh grass.
Elodie said she’d put them in the barn until they could figure out the fencing situation.
At this point, sheep seem like a giant pain in the butt to me, but this is what Manu and Elodie do for a living—and jobs, by definition, can be a pain in the butt. Pets, in the other hand, are supposed to be wonderful and life-affirming.
Pascal’s experience with “pet” sheep also seems to fall into the pain in the butt camp. And, frankly, I’m not confident in my fence-building skills. I can certainly tear a fence down like a pro, but that wouldn’t be of much use in rearing three, entitled, Gen Z sheep.
So, we’re not getting any sheep in the near future—and that includes Pascal’s livestock. Maybe Yves will take them. He’s probably not as discerning about age when it comes to his rack of lamb. He doesn’t have enough land, but I doubt they’d be around long enough for that to matter.
We, on the other hand, are happy with cats and, soon, chickens—for both companionship and eggs. We have the space and I’m 100% certain that chickens make excellent pets.