A Letter To Ungrateful Sheep
Hope you are doing well in this frigid weather? It looks like you are, since when I walked outside at dawn to greet you I noticed you were all happily chewing cud out on a patch of hay you've turned into your outdoor bedroom. It was nice to see you, content and woolly, doing what sheep do-but I feel as though you have failed to recognize what the human being is going through while you just chew and stare at me.
You see that rubber tub of water over there? Uh huh, that one. The one that is filled with LIQUID and not solid ice? Yes. The one you seem to ignore all day and let freeze. The one I scramble up the icy hill with crampons on my boots and flip over to de-ice? Yes, that same rubber tub you see me jump on top of to make those igloo bricks for the foundation of the zero igloos I will be constructing? Yes! That is the one! Do you see me when crab-walk down the icy hill and carry buckets of well water up to you in case you deign to take a sip in the next forty minutes or so? THAT is a lot of work and I just don't think you appreciate it. I really don't. You just watch me do this while chewing your breakfast greens and meditating on the intergalactic swirlings of the heavens inside the single snowflake on the end of your amazingly not-frost-bitten noses. Could you at least pretend to show some appreciation? Clap? Smile? a Nod?!
And that hay, by the by, that hay was hauled here in that semi-legal dented monster I am still paying off in the driveway. Yes. I carried those bales to you after loading them in the truck from a farm miles away, from a stash of hay I helped load into said barn months ago... for this very moment. And yet you stare, watching your new water freeze, closing your eyes to contemplate the comforts of 5 inches of wool on your stomaches.
Oh, sheep. You watch me scuttle and struggle. You snicker at my bundled up naked body. You and your clique of a herd all invested in your polyamorous baby-making. You know what? I think you may be snobs. Seriously. Like those rich people at the ski slope drinking slippery cocktails in their Smartwool long underwear while the staff walks by with a push broom with duct tape on their box-store parkas. Yes. I am saying it now. Sheep are elitist, alpine sport-loving, boozers, with their noses in the air.
Or maybe I just need to invest in a good hose and a frost-free hydrant?
Nah, sheep are assholes.