Short story of the month

Introducing York Wordsmiths… The local group formed over ten years ago through an evening class taught by Pat Borthwick but continued long after the lessons finished. Now the group meet for tea and cake, and more recently over Zoom, to set writing tasks and critique each others’ work. Each month we’ll be sharing a short story or poem by one of their writers.

New Tricks

Ripped trousers, that’s all it was. But the postman didn’t see it that way. Anyway, I’ve been moved to the country. Seconded to a farm. All part of a new 

RSPCA initiative for local job creation. And it’s not a bad job, as jobs go. Especially if you like the great outdoors. Wide-open spaces. Room to roam. And I can race about as much as I want. 

The job comes with a flock of fifty sheep, but there are certain responsibilities. For a start, there’s a ten-month training package thrown into the deal. Chasing wayward sheep is definitely frowned on. They have to be mustered. And talking of sheep, they’re not the brightest of God’s animals. Only just having the edge on headless chickens. 

I’ve learnt that with quick bursts of speed you can soon round them up and nudge them towards the pen. Play my cards right and I could be on herding duties in a few months.  

But there’s always one. Only this morning I had to pursue a lamb that had broken away from the flock. And then a strange thing happened. For a moment time stood still. There I was, lying in the warmth of the farm kitchen, on my blanket next to the Aga. The family all seated round the table and a mouth-watering aroma of gravy. And mint sauce. Seconds later I’m back in the field and driving the flock through the gate. What’s that all about?  

The job does come with some perks. Two good meals a day and a bijou residence thrown in for good measure. A stylish clapboard kennel, that wouldn’t look out of place in New England. A bit draughty but keeps out the rain. And you can keep an eye on the flock from a sheltered distance. There’s none of that shepherds watching their flocks by night stuff these days. And no wolves either.

We get a steady stream of visitors to the farm, labourers and farmworkers. But, since Health and Safety got in on the act I’ve had to suppress the temptation to have a go at their ankles. 

Come August, it’s open season for cyclists. They represent a totally different challenge. First, it’s crucial to remain out of sight. Then, position yourself in readiness to sprint at any second. As the hapless cyclist pedals past, you launch yourself out of the blocks. Timing is crucial at this stage. Bark too soon and he’ll accelerate away. Bark as you pull alongside and this has the effect of unsettling the cyclist. Placing your open jaws in the ideal position. For a judicious nip.  

Shame that stretching Lycra is nowhere near as satisfying as the sound of ripping trousers. 

But hang on a moment. Is that a rambler approaching the stile? I trot over and sit next to it, lulling her into a false sense of security. She places a foot on the step and hooks the other leg over. A plump bottom presents itself.  

I know I shouldn’t. But old habits die hard.