Trevor the sheep

Trevor stamps his right hoof on the ground. He’s challenging me with that look again; daring me to try and go near him. Trevor is big, grey-woolly white and handsome. You know where you are with him. You can tell by the way he looks at you with his long caramel eyes that he thinks all humans are ridiculous; even the ones who bring him food are ridiculous - just slightly less so.

He contradicts every negative word that has ever been said or written about a sheep. He does not follow ‘sheep-like’, he is not docile or stupid; meek or timid. He will not be taught, he will not be led.

And he’s stubborn. When snow threatened the Charentes’ skies, my neighbour tried to persuade Trevor to leave his field; to join the cocoa-coloured pom-poms who had cheerfully hopped into the trailer to be driven up the road and into a barn.

But Trevor would not be moved. And so began a two-day stand-off between man and sheep; a frosty, frustrating battle of wills.

Trevor sat in the field watching as the tall man returned with the trailer and more feed. And just like every time before, he hauled himself up, like a large, lumbering footstool, ambled forward, took the bribe from the bucket. Then sat down again.

Of course he went eventually, obviously a little bored.

He spends his days in the field with number four pom-pom, the sheep-like sheep who makes my neighbour laugh.

“He’d make a good pet,” he says.

In October, Trevor will be fathering next spring’s lambs.

“He’s aloof,” my neighbour smiles. “He’s not thinking enough to be enigmatic. But he’s cool, we’ll keep him.”