RAM ON A DEATH WISH

... or how Norman turned yellow

STORMIN' NORMAN, one of two rams bought by my husband after I had said "never again" to having sheep, has really tried my patience over the last couple of weeks. 

YELLOW PERIL: Stormin Norman

with medicinal face pack 

 As regulars to this blog know, I'm convinced sheep only have two missions in life: One is to die and the other is to escape. Norman, and his smaller Zwartbles companion, have made several attempts to do both since their surprise arrival a few months back.

 So I suppose it was inevitable when the beehives arrived a few weeks back their occupants would inspire Norman in his pursuit of the dark arts of trying to top himself.

 Somehow he's managed to get too close to one of the beehives and was stung for his curiosity ...

 

YOU GRUNT AND I'LL GROAN: Hubby wrestles Stormin'
Norman into submission before commencing with pedicure

although why he'd choose death by bee stings as a way to peel off this mortal coil is beyond me! As a result his face bloated up, his eyes virtually closed and, to make matters worse, he rubbed his already raw skin on the wires and fence posts. Of course the flies added to his discomfort and aggravated his seeping wounds. Yes, Norman, pictured above, either side, looked really pleased with himself. After a trip into Hawick and some sage advice from a sheep person I received a yellow face pack treatment to apply to the bee stings every day; containing soothing medicated cream with all sorts of anti-biotics, fly repellants and other stuff known to sheep folk it would do the trick. Not only did this aggravate my psoriasis but my fingers are so discoloured the marks resemble the sort of nicotine stains sported by someone who smokes 60 Woodbines a day - and I was wearing gloves. So yesterday, when both he and his fellow ram started limping, I made it quite plain to hubby that it was time he stepped up to the plate. And today, under the watchful eye of his mentor, he set about giving Norman a trim and a foot bath but not before wrestling him to his woolly bottom and then using the support of a wooden fence post to try and stop him from wriggling about. 

It reminded me of the great Saturday afternoons me and my dad used to have infront of the TV watching the late, great Mick McManus throw various wrestlers around the ring.

 I'm not sure who won on this occasion but, ever hopeful, perhaps Norman will think twice now before trying self harm again.