May 01, 2011|By
Lauren Ritchie, COMMENTARY
Sheep are not especially fussy about
personal hygiene.
This fact became apparent last week
as my neighbor Barbara Lockard and I embarked on one of those pioneer-woman
adventures that in-charge females such as ourselves undertake with an air of
aplomb.
First, Barbara and I discussed it
over a glass or three of cabernet. We reviewed the plan and paused, then
burst simultaneously into uproarious laughter. Of course we can turn sheep
into sweaters! It's a snap! Heck, our foremothers did it with neither
electricity nor merlot! Why can't we?
Barbara has eight sheep at her Lake Jem
home called Herd-A-Little Farm. It's not that she's oddly attached to
ruminants. Rather, she's hopelessly in love with her border collies, those
herding dogs with a ferocious, focused, relentless — one might say psycho
— desire for sheep.
So, the plan was to turn a smelly and
expensive byproduct of dog entertainment into a historical spinning adventure,
thereby proving once and for all that we are the coolest ladies in the
neighborhood.
Step 1: In anticipation of good
times to come, consume cabernet.
Step 2: Extract fleece from
sheep.
Right off the bat, we did what every
savvy Southern lady ever has done when faced with a distasteful job involving
stupid and stubborn participants: Hire it done.
Ned the Shearer arrived with a helper
in tow. He bemoaned middle age while the young helper stripped Barb's bad boys
of their wool in about 20 minutes.
Step 3: Prepare fleece for
washing.
Barbara arrived at the Ritchie Resort
and Sunshine Sanatorium with two contractor-sized plastic bags jammed full of
stinky fleece in the back of her truck. You know the size of those bags — a
person could dispose of a couple of dead bodies without even having to chop
them up.
Barbara wrestled one of the bags
through the gate into the back yard, where two of her border collies were
cavorting with my evil little herding dog, Lola.
Vigorous snipping
Lola is smaller but stockier than a
border collie, which is a rangy critter that easily runs 65 pounds. Lola
weighs only 35. But what she lacks in weight, she makes up for in intensity.
The border collies — Jake and the new
puppy Lily — were tussling over Lola's Frisbee. Then Lola dashed to the
picnic table where Barb and I had opened the bag and were examining the first
fleece.
Lola's front paws went up on the table
and she hesitated a moment, the black whiskers on her tan snout visibly
twitching.
Then, she grabbed. And grabbed and
grabbed, coming up with whole mouthfuls of fleece. She snatched again and
again, joyfully shaking her head, throwing the fleece into the air, tufts of
wools dangling from her chops.
She looked a little, well, googly-eyed
and deranged.
"Get that sheep out of your
mouth!" Barbara roared.
This is a phrase that Barb finds very
useful when she is around Lola. It is easier than yelling, "Get that
potential sweater out of your lips!"
At this point, in consideration of the
heat and the unruly dog activity, this columnist will shorten the tale.
Two pairs of scissors began snipping
vigorously at the fleece. It was trimmed and thoroughly shaken before being
stuffed into the washer with a half bottle of dishwashing detergent to soak
the lanolin out.
Unexpected crisis
It took three soaks in 140-degree water
— no agitating! that would be ruination! — before the grimy mass could be
positively identified as wool.
All seemed to be going well after a
dubious start.
Then I saw bubbles in the bathroom.
Lots of them. Foam from the dishwashing liquid washed into the septic system
was silently rising from the toilet bowl and flowing over the seat and onto
the floor like Mount Vesuvius taking out Pompeii.
Eeeek! What would a pioneer woman do
under these weird circumstances?
I don't know, but I took the obvious
choice: I flushed.
Folks, we'll be giving you an update as
this project rolls along. Meanwhile, we're open to suggestions. For example,
should we switch to merlot? If anyone out there has ever processed sheep wool
at home, we're counting on you for some help. Let us hear from you.