Shepherds

Wendall was a sheep-whisperer. Being a horse-whisperer would have been better. Horses have a sense of the heroic, a sense they share with us. Give a horse some inspiration, and it can perform feats of greatness. A sheep's response to inspiration is, "Well isn't that interesting," and very little more.

Wendall the sheep-whisperer tended the sheep, no surprises there. He talked to them, feeling his way through sheep grammar, trying to grasp what sorts of phrasings might unlock a sheep's imagination.

Grisha had broken off a Knobblerod of her own and joined Wendall in the pasture over the last couple weeks. Wendall was odd, but he had good hair and a rich mother. And Grisha was a girl who didn't leave options unexamined. Wendall, in a calculated move, ceased his conversations with the sheep during this time, leaving in its place a distinct lack of conversation with Grisha. Mornings were growing flat and awkward, afternoons more so. Grisha looked out at the trees and wondered if other unexamined options crept out there, silver-grinning .

"Mutt's agitated," said Wendall.

"BLEHHH," said Mutt.

They squinted a little harder at the trees.

* * *

These guys are a little cartoonier/kid-proportioned than what I'd been thinking, but art is art. And it goes on blogs.