By our fourth season we had 80 sheep and they were all beautiful. Cecil and his girls had done us proud. They had made lots more than the current 80 but the extras had been despatched to other properties. The flock included Rambo, a big strong ram not quite as good in wool quality as Cecil but close. He was one of Cecil’s sons who we had preserved to inherit the mantle should Cecil eventually get old. We had kept a second ram to keep him company but he was slightly mad and liked running at full speed into anything solid like a shed wall. Eventually he killed himself.
I found Cecil’s carcass under a small tree in the River Paddock. He showed no signs of damage more than associated with a tough life servicing ewes. Clearly he died happily of a heart attack. Rambo couldn’t wait to use his inheritance and instead of taking it gently and savouring the intimate pleasures of his sisters and mother, he had the circuit of the half flock we allowed him done in a few days.
She didn’t like it, pointing out that it was not only morally wrong, but would result in loss of vigour in the flock and possibly even homosexuality, considering also the river water. We should get a proper ram.
Recently, the bottom had dropped out of the wool market with the diminution of the Soviet armed forces; they didn’t need greatcoats any more. The Italians were making suits from brilliant new polymers that were lighter and warmer than the finest wools and selling them relatively cheaply across Europe, and Australia had just been through some over-productive wool years and the nation’s stockpile was building. Wool was now hardly saleable. Despite its good quality and doubled quantity, our wool was earning less than half the small amount we banked in our first season. It really was time to rethink the business plan again.
