Greetings, fellow canines! Rocky here, retired English sheepdog extraordinaire. Well… perhaps “extraordinaire” is stretching it a bit. Okay, a lot. Let me explain.
You see, back in my farm days in the rolling hills of England, I had one job: herd sheep. Simple, right? Guide those woolly wanderers from point A to point B. Ha! If only. Let me tell you about the day I accidentally invented “reverse herding” and nearly caused a sheep stampede down the village high street.
It was a beautiful spring morning at Little Blacksticks Farm. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and I was ready to prove my worth as the newest addition to the farm. There I was, fur flowing majestically in the breeze, eager to show off my alleged skills. The farmer, Susan, gave the signal, and I sprang into action!
I barked my most authoritative bark. I ran in what I thought were impressive circles. I even threw in a few fancy jumps for good measure. It was a magnificent display of… total chaos.
Those woolly rascals took one look at me and collectively decided, “Nope! We’re out of here!” Before I knew it, they were streaming out the open gate, fleeing down the road like they’d just heard sheep treats were on sale in the next county.
Susan’s face turned as red as a border collie’s fetch toy. Her shouts of “Rocky, no!” and “Come back here, you woolly nitwits!” echoed across the fields of Little Blacksticks Farm. Me? I just sat there, tongue lolling, thinking, “Well, they’re certainly flocking together. That counts for something, right?”
As the last sheep tail disappeared around the bend, I realized my sheepherding career was taking a nosedive faster than a corgi chasing a dropped sausage. Susan huffed and puffed her way down the lane, while I trotted beside her, still oddly proud of my sheep-scattering abilities.
Thankfully, the road was quiet that day. We found the flock contentedly munching on Mrs. Higgins’ prize-winning roses two farms over. The look on her face as she came out to find her garden transformed into an all-you-can-eat sheep buffet? Priceless.
Needless to say, my career as a sheepdog at Little Blacksticks Farm was short-lived. But hey, at least I gave the local traffic a woolly surprise and Mrs. Higgins a unique garden makeover! These days, I’m happily retired, chasing tennis balls instead of sheep. Much safer for everyone involved, trust me.
So, next time you see a sheepdog looking a bit too pleased with itself, remember old Rocky from Little Blacksticks Farm. Sometimes, we’re just happy to see the sheep moving… even if it’s in entirely the wrong direction!
Signing off with a sheepish grin, Rocky 🐾
P.S. I heard through the grapevine (or should I say, sheep vine?) that the local farmers now use “pulling a Rocky” as a term for spectacularly failing at your job. I’m not sure whether to be proud or embarrassed!