Shamrock

I realized that I referenced the Shamrock story in the previous post thinking that I had written about it in this blog at some point. After perusing the history files, I see that I have never shared this story in the blog genre.

It's a shame. One that I will try to alleviate today. Then maybe, you can see where the hysterical laughing/crying jag came from.

Shamrock

or

Look Who's Coming To Dinner

My sister was born on March 16th - the day before St. Patricks Day. Did I mention that her name is Shannon? Yes. Shannon, the Norwegian-Irish lass.

I'm not exactly sure how "Irish" lambs are. I suppose there are some of the little buggers roaming about the Irish countryside.....

I distinctly remember the day - I was probably 4 or 5 when my Mom and I carried this adorable little lamb out to the bus stop to surprise Shannon for her birthday. The lamb had a little green ribbon around it's neck with a pin on it that said, "Kiss me I'm Irish".

We named the lamb, of course, Shamrock.

Shamrock grew, as lambs are wont to do, into a full-fledged sheep in a very short time. He had no idea he was a sheep, since we were on a cattle ranch and had nothing to compare himself to. He hung out with the rowdy cow dogs where he learned to chase cows, bulls and cars.

The cows and bulls were so totally freaked out at the sight of a woolly little lamb rushing toward them menacingly. Herding the cows using Shamrock was definitely more expeditious than using the dogs.

The cars, on the other hand, didn't seem to notice a difference.

Shamrock also loved to head butt.

He also liked to head butt people in the butt (which I supposed would be called a butt butt - but I digress...).

I had a little white pony-riding helmet that had fingernail polish painted polka dots in red all over it. I would wear this helmet and spend an afternoon head butting the pet sheep.

(It is about here that the hysterics began to creep towards the surface. I mean, really. How in the world can this story be real? It's ridiculous.)

After a few years my Dad announced that Shamrock's car chasing days were through. He had found him a beautiful home on a sheep ranch in Idaho. He would be the bellwether of the flock and never be subjected to any harm.

This was a win-win that was out of character in a rancher. We were taught at an early age that you did what you had to do. My father loved his animals and there are none that were better cared for, but it was a business. And business is business. (The story of Patches comes to mind here - but that is for another time.)

So, Shamrock went away to Idaho with many hugs and tears, but happiness was in our hearts that he would be happy and safe. I still have the image in my head of Shamrock ambling over rolling green hills, bell on collar, leading the sheep to greener pastures.......

Be very careful in believing that the grass is always greener.

A few months later, Grandpa was over at dinner. We were all gathered around the dinner table - Norman Rockwell style - when Grandpa said in his heavy Norwegian accent, "Well, ya, is dis da kid's sheep? It's goot, not too tuff."

We had been eating Shamrock for God knows how long.

The children screamed. Mom insisted she didn't know. We cried and cried and retched and cried.

And Dad and Grandpa got the hell out of the house.