When I first arrived at the farm, I didn’t even have a name. I was simply called ‘Puss-woossh’ or ‘Pritty Kitty Cat’, which is a bit demeaning, particularly as I am so handsome. People often ask what I am, with my big green eyes, pointed ears and coat of fluffy brown-black fur. What a stupid question. I’m a cat, of course – not a Maine Coon or a Norwegian Forest cat, but a Kilkenny cat at that.
Anyway, when The Shepherd finally let me out from the snug warmth of the Aga, I followed her around – she was kind of interesting after all, with her mane of long, grey hair and strong voice, the better to reach the end of fields when she calls our beloved sheep.
At the time of my arrival, she kept horses in stables in a small outer farmyard with low stone sheds and buildings. On this particular morning, she strode across to the stables, where two horses looked out over their half-doors. She buckled on their head collars and opened both stable doors, saying, ‘Stand!’ in a firm voice to both horses; they stood stone-still and didn’t budge, which I found quite impressive. I walked between two of them to get a better look. They were certainly very tall, with their shiny coats, one bay and one grey with silky manes, quite handsome even if they were horses. Horses, as we all know, aren’t that intelligent most of the time. (The exception being Marco Polo – more about him later.)
‘Silly cat,’ The Shepherd said when she noticed me underfoot. She nudged me with her boot to get out of the way as she was about to lead both horses forward, my guess is in case I got trodden on by one of their great hooves as they walked out into the cobbled yard. Their huge muscular bodies towered above me. She thought I was scared, but she was wrong: I don’t do ‘scared’. I continued to walk alongside her between the two horses, not at all bothered by their size or the metallic sound their shod hooves made as they walked across cobbles towards the field gate.
‘Oh, my God!’ she exclaimed when I wouldn’t budge. ‘You are sooooo bodacious, do you know that?’ So, Bodacious I became.
She’s since bored me often enough with this story of how that word, a Cajun term, comes from the bayous of Louisiana. It seems to mean, ‘Big, bold, beautiful, bolshie’, which I suppose is accurate enough. Apparently, it reminds her of her younger self as others called her that when she was a spirited young woman living in New York City, a long time ago in cat years. Even though Black Sheep Farm has been part of The Shepherd’s family for two hundred years, part of her family comes from America.
That was long ago – nine or ten years – and I decided to stay. There was something about this house, orchard and fields that made me want to take part in life here, not for the usual reasons – a plentiful supply of food and rodents – but because I felt at home here: sunning myself in a corner of the garden that looks down to a faded mellow pink farmhouse, or nosing around in the orchard. Besides, I knew that The Shepherd needed me. She barely managed before I came along, though Pepper had made a great and dedicated effort.
Once I’d made the decision, I had to find a role for myself in The Shepherd’s animal family. I shadowed Oscar, the white cat with tabby spots. He looked as if he was in charge, so I simply followed his lead. When there were lambs under a red heat lamp, Oscar would join them. He’d curl up underneath it to add to their collected warmth. There was nothing in it for him, needless to say.
Oscar died in 2013, and I must say, I miss him. There’s no one around to share the burden of being Top Shepherd Cat and the responsibilities that go with it. For there are many: I mostly instruct, oversee and keep The Shepherd company during long hours of lambing. I watch over the fields as she tops long grasses in well-grazed meadows. I help bring in hay, check stock during feeding time, assist in early lamb care for those who need help to start their lives.
I am not Little Bo-Peep, though we have lost some sheep on occasion when they’ve escaped through broken fences or over old fallen stone walls into neighbours’ fields. I have learned to expect a rough-with-smooth life and an occasional death. To tend sheep is hard work. My Shepherd believes in sustainable farming, so we must feed soil naturally to grow a healthy variety of grasses, clovers, herbs and wild-meadow flowers. All these plants feed sheep that grow wool that is shorn, cleaned, spun and woven into warm beautiful blankets (designed by The Shepherd) at a local woollen mill, Cushendale, in the lovely village of Graiguenamanagh. These blankets are then sent all over the world: even our President of Ireland has one – but more of that later. There will be plenty of sheep in this book. Some sheep are harvested for meat, others are sold to become breeding stock on another farm.
I’m just a minor shepherd if one compares my flock to the Australian or New Zealand flocks and their many thousands of white woolly sheep. My flock is small: just sixty to eighty in size, most of which are a rare breed of sheep called Zwartbles. They are large chocolate-coloured beasts with a long white blaze on their face, a white tip to the tail and a pair of white bobby socks on their back legs. They are a bit dim, but easy enough to manage. They provide lots of milk that can produce delicious cheese or sumptuously delectable ice cream, which The Shepherd has made and which is whisker-licking good. Their lovely fleeces are a fine rich dark chocolate brown, like espresso coffee.
I also find that I have to look after The Shepherd from time to time. As I mentioned earlier, long ago she worked for a wildlife charity in Southeast Asia. She befriended many exotic wild animals while she collected and collated animal-husbandry and veterinary information to bring home to her employer in London. This was before you could google such specialist information and find correct answers. While there, she contracted a tropical sickness which kept her bedridden for three years. Although this illness lingers, she manages capably with my help and enjoys her farm work, although I still have to play nursemaid to her whenever she succumbs to a recurrence. I lie on her to keep her stationary, so that she rests. It’s a hard life.
On top of this, I give instructions while The Shepherd cooks and I make sure all the eggs are collected from my egg-makers. They might think their eggs are hidden, but I know where they hide them, behind bales of straw and nestled in loose hay. I also keep other animals in check and I’m not above giving one of them a clawed slap to keep them under control. When The Shepherd is working in the garden I make sure the robin doesn’t get all the worms, leaving some behind to naturally enrich the soil – it’s simple really, I just chase him away from the top of the garden fork. I ignore Miss Marley, but I must always control Ovenmitt to show him who is the main Shepherd Cat.
My work never ends, but my day usually debuts when I feel like it. Sometimes it begins when the scullery door to the house opens and I enter to breakfast on crunchy cat biscuits. Other days start by counting sheep with The Shepherd and our canine work companions. I find the most accurate way to check sheep is to count the legs and divide by four.
I enjoy walks through the fields to inspect ewes and lambs. Some are old friends whom I greet with a gentle welcome salutation of a headbutt. Others try to headbutt me, so I tend to avoid them. Ram lambs can be quite stroppy, so I must watch out for them in particular. Mostly all is well as we walk through fields to count ewes and lambs, check fences, stone walls and note what the wildlife is doing as each year turns. All that counting sheep can make me feel a bit sleepy though, so afterwards I sometimes catch a snooze in front of or on top of the Aga.
After more than twenty years in charge, The Shepherd is passably competent and the benefits of supervising her outweigh the disadvantages, so I do not plan to move on at this time. But I am a singularly independent cat and I should never be taken for granted. I am NOT child-friendly and I do not suffer fools gladly. I am a busy professional, intelligent – if I say so myself – hard-working farm cat. Humans have tried to pick me up, but quickly drop me when my teeth sink into their hands or arms.