Jambo and Rambo had now been put in the same paddock solely for company; that’s the way real farmers do it with all the boys together. It wasn’t working. They didn’t make friends. I had expected that in any disagreement between them Rambo would win and maybe maim and even kill Jambo, but they just kept their distance. I assumed Rambo’s frightening horns and vigour were the reason.
It came time to move Jambo in with his ewes, but first we had to put the two rams into the yards to separate them. This forced them into close proximity, a few metres apart. Jambo instantly ran into the side of Rambo totally bowling him over. Then showing he wasn’t a gentleman, further steam-rolled Rambo while he was prostrate. Victorious, Jambo then trotted into the paddock with the ewes and made friends.
After a couple of weeks interacting with the girls Jambo leapt a series of fences and went the 20 kilometres back home. He had made his decision, our place was inadequate. We had decided in the meantime that he was gay because he always seemed to keep at least a few metres between himself and sheep.
Despite his leanings, when spring arrived it was accompanied by two cross-bred lambs, both male and therefore useless to us, but proof that Jambo had been at least a bit active and slightly hetero. The lambs grew into fine boys who looked exactly like their father. They showed no trace of merino genes. Jambo was too special to mix. The boys were however quite tasty when curried.
This last curry supper marked the close of our fat lamb enterprise. Somebody said you get what you pay for.
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