Butter

It was late June in upstate New York.

The school year had just ended, and the farm was glazed with sparkling drops of dew as the sun rose into the clear morning sky.

A rooster crowed just as the sun’s shine warmed the low hillside, casting soft shadows against the barn. The wood-picket fence trailed along the pasture, curling around a herd of wooly sheep, all fitted close together like a puffy cloud knitted to the grass.

From within the barn, horses whinnied and cows kicked at small clumps of hay and dirt. Goats crowded against the stable doors, hooves patting at the wood for attention. Chickens scratched at the floor, roaming about on their own, pecking and pawing at the crusted dirt in the floorboards.

High above all of this quiet commotion, sat a cat, sitting contentedly in the window-sill, watching the wacky, clucking birds trip over each other while they pried around for crumbs. The cat just sat, its tail curled tightly against itself, purring softly as the morning atmosphere set in. The farm was waking up, and the cat was enjoying its last few moments of peace before it was interrupted by the routine morning chaos.

A few minutes later, on time as usual, the door creaked open allowing light to stream into the barn. The cat perked its weary head up, surveying the farmer as he strolled in carrying his daily buckets of oats and water for the horses. The cat stood, took one large stretch, then slunk into the corner and up into the hay loft, out of sight.

The farmer shuffled in, his boots skidding across the floor making the chickens flap in excitement. He wore beaten trousers; holes were covered by small patches that he had sewn on himself, and the occasional grass stain could be seen where it had failed to wash out. He wore a plaid shirt and a flat straw hat that kept the sun from penetrating to fiercely into his scalp. A bandana hung loosely from a deep pocket in his trousers, and large, tough work gloves covered his bruised hands.

He sat the bucket down on a stout bench, and threw some of the seeds to the chickens, which pecked at the food mightily. Sighing and wiping his face with the bandana, he sat firmly on the bench, watching the chickens as they cried and flapped about. His face was very gentle, and there was sadness that could be seen in his eyes as he worked, as he fed, and tended the animals. If you had the sense enough to stop and ask him what was troubling him, he would only give an evasive smile, and act as though you hadn’t asked. He would simply turn back to working.

As he gazed thoughtfully at the chickens, he stood and stretched his arms a little, then went back to work. He fed and groomed the horses, humming to himself a cheerful tune as he brushed their tangled manes. The horses stood calmly as he worked, their tired legs firmly fixed to the ground.

These were old show horses. When they were young, they would compete in county events, leaping hurtles, doing tricks, some even racing. But they couldn’t be ridden anymore, the majority of them now lame from broken legs and other injuries. Their owners, seeing no further use for them, had simply dropped them off at the farm and never returned.

Almost once a month, the farmer would look out his window as he drank his morning coffee and see a poor, broken-down horse tied to the fence post on his front lawn. And he'd take them in. Each and every time.

The farmer patted one of his horses, then locked the stable doors and trudged to the pasture, carrying rope and a razor. He wiped his face again with the bandana then shoved it back in his pocket as he boarded his tractor. The tractor made loud choking sounds as it buzzed to life and the farmer chuckled to himself.

“Come on ol’ girl, you still got some juice in ya.”

The tractor obeyed, and the mighty tires rolled across the grass, shimmering as the dew came off on the dry rubber.

The farmer surveyed his sheep, all stirred by the tractor’s colossal appearance. They scattered, bowing their heads up and down, lambs kicked up the dirt as they struggled to stay close to their mothers. The tractor halted, and the farmer climbed down carrying the rope and razor. He marched over to a short post then took the rope and walked up to one of the sheep, tying it around its neck and gently leading it to the post. Once tied, he clicked on the razor and shaved off the sheep's wool.

The process took hours as the farmer led the sheep one by one to the post, shaved them, carried the wool to the tractor to tie it up, then released the sheep and headed back for another. When he was finally finished, it was already noon, and he wasn’t even half done with his chores. The farmer took no notice of this however, and simply boarded his tractor carrying the wool and headed back to the barn. He fanned himself with his hat after he climbed out of the massive vehicle, and then he made his way to the cow stables for milking.

***

The carpenter checked his watch as he finished nailing the final board into its place, fitting in tightly with the others that stood as the frame of a new three-bedroom house. He gathered his tools and trudged to the rear of his truck where he laid them in a box. After shutting the tailgate, the carpenter leaned against the bumper, wiping his face with his sleeve. Other workers prepared to leave as well, the hum of motors whirring to life and the crunch of gravel being turned up in rough tires as the sun sunk lower over the horizon. He took one last look at his watch, then turned and got into the front of his truck, closing the door forcefully behind him.

The carpenter, one arm resting on the side of the window, let out a deep sigh as he turned the key in the ignition. He rolled up his sleeves and winced as he moved his shoulder, the pain on an old injury shooting up his neck. He couldn’t stand it.

Just as his calloused hand came to rest on the gear shift, a small sound reached his ears that made him pause. An odd yet familiar sound, coming from just behind his truck.

Baa. Baaaa.

He turned to the rearview mirror and there is was. An old, wooly sheep, standing on the dirt road looking back at him, its head cocked to the side in curiosity. The carpenter assumed it was from up the road, he had seen a small farm pass by when he pulled up the worksite that morning.

But something caught his eye about this sheep. While everything else about it was normal, its ears were missing. Where its ears should have been, there were just two small nubs and white fur matted with scabs.

"What the hell happened to you, sheep?" The carpenter asked playfully, letting out a tired huff as he opened the door and climbed down from the driver seat of his truck. He was involved now.

"Where'd you come from? That your farm up the road?"

Baaaa, it bleated in response, unbothered as the carpenter approached. He patted the sheep's head, trying to get a better look at the animal's earless nubs. There was no blood, teeth marks or obvious signs of a blade. It almost looked like the ears had just fallen off.

"Come on, sheep," the carpenter sighed, patting its rump. "Let's get you home."

Together, the sheep and the carpenter made their way up the road, the carpenter patting the sheep's wooly back gently to keep it walking. Their footsteps kicked up dirt behind them, a hazy trail of dust billowing up into the early summer sky. Every now and then, they'd have to take a break to let the sheep munch on flowers overtaking the roadside. The snack breaks quickly made an escort that should've taken a few minutes evolve into a half hour long escapade.

"Come on, sheep," the carpenter groaned, "leave the flowers be."

Eventually, the smell of mulch and manure hit the carpenter's nose like a punch in the face. He could hear a distant racket in the air—quacking ducks splashing around in the pond, low moos from cattle in the barn, and of course, a cacophony of bleats from goats and sheep in the pasture. The farm was finally in view, sitting at the top of the next hill.

"Looks like they're all waitin' for you," the carpenter exclaimed, picking up the pace as he and his unlikely companion made their final approach. "You see that?" The carpenter teased, pointing up the dirt path. "Home, sheep."

Spotting the herd, the sheep broke into a trot, making a beeline for the fence surrounding the pasture.

As he watched the sheep head over to join its herd, the carpenter watched in disbelief as the sheep reached the suspiciously unlatched gate and confidently squeezed its way through.

"Smart sheep," the carpenter sighed, trudging up to the gate and latching it shut, but not before noticing the jerry-rigged nature of the latch.

Damn sheep's gonna get out again in no time, the carpenter thought to himself. Time to find a human being.

He glanced around, taking in the quaint farm that seemed to be swarming with movement and sounds. There were animals everywhere he looked, from typical livestock like horses, cattle, pigs, poultry and sheep, to helpful companions like barn cats and sheep dogs, to not-so-typical additions like rabbits, hamsters, guinea pigs and even ferrets.

But no people. No farmhands, no laborers. Just animals.

Puzzled, he checked his watch. 5:30 p.m. Surely there would be people milling around here somewhere, feeding the animals, putting away equipment for the day. Where were they?

Just as he was ready to shrug it off and head back down the road to his truck, a faint aroma reached his nostrils, making his mouth water. Some sort of burger was grilling somewhere nearby.

He glanced around once more, spotting a stout house at the other end of the farm, a grayish cloud of smoke rising into the air behind it. His feet carried him over to the mud-covered front porch steps, and before he knew it, he was knocking on the door.

"One sec," a gruff voice called from inside, "be right there!"

After about 30 seconds, a towering figure emerged from inside the house, a stained kitchen towel slung over one of his shoulders and a greasy spatula clutched firmly in his hand. He met the carpenter's cautious gaze with a warm smile, shoving the spatula in his back pocket and haphazardly wiping down his hands on the front of his overalls before reaching out to shake the worker's hand.

"Hello there, sorry 'bout the mess," he said, gesturing to the fresh mud on the floor that trailed through the entryway and back toward the kitchen. "Wasn't expecting visitors."

"Just me," the carpenter assured him as he reached out and shook the stranger's hand, rough as sandpaper. "Was workin' down the road, startin' on the framing for a home about a mile from here. You the farmer?"

The man nodded, his tired eyes looking past the carpenter and out to the sun-scorched pasture.

"It's not much," the farmer sighed, "but it's home. Has been for more than 20 years."

"Nice to meet you. 20 years, huh? That's impressive. I haven't seen anyone else workin' around here though, you take care of this whole place yourself?"

The farmer chuckled, standing a little taller and nodding again. "More of a passion than a job runnin' this place. Couldn't afford anyone else anyway. It's been me and the animals for a long time."

"I see. Well actually, speaking of your animals, I was runnin' a little late getting off the job site and I think I bumped into one of your sheep."

"Good Lord," the farmer replied, shaking his head, irritation and mild amusement written all over his face. "Was it missing its ears?"

The carpenter let out a hearty laugh, the absurd reality of the question instantly breaking any ice that was left between the two. The farmer smiled, stepping to the side of the entryway.

"I just made burgers out back if you want a bite, cold beer's in the fridge. My thank you for you returnin' that damn sheep."

"Sounds great," the carpenter chuckled, stepping inside and following the farmer back to the kitchen. "How'd that sheep lose its ears?"

"Frostbite," the farmer said. "But of course that sheep got frostbite, damn thing is slipperier than an eel when it comes to gettin' out of the pasture. I'm guessin' the gate was open?"

"It was," the carpenter admitted, sitting down at the kitchen table while the farmer went into the fridge for beer. "I noticed the latch doesn't seem to be holdin' on by much, I could fix that for you if you like, it's no trouble."

"Have at it, saves me the headache. Much appreciated," the farmer said, sliding a beer bottle across the table to the carpenter.

The carpenter popped open the bottle and took a long, slow swig, savoring the malty taste. He glanced out the window at the muddy farm road, littered with pets and foraging livestock. The farmer followed his gaze and let out a deep sigh.

"Yeah, I've lived here 20 years, and taken care of probably hundreds of animals in all that time. Most of the ones alive today aren't even mine. Just left here. It started years ago, folks not knowin' what to do with lame horses, so I told 'em I'd take them in. Every time. You do that often enough and there are no more conversations. People know you won't turn 'em away, and word travels fast. I started waking up to see horses tied to my mailbox down the driveway, cows and sheep roamin' the pasture I didn't recognize, even pets left in cages at my doorstep. I've kept every single one. I mean really, why not? They get to live happy and I have some company. Not so bad."

The carpenter considered the farmer's words, taking another swig of beer.

"You takin' care of yourself though?" The carpenter asked. "You're out here day in and day out by yourself. I can't imagine all the blood, sweat and tears that go into this place. You able to make any kind of living off this?"

"Here and there," the farmer replied, leaning back in his chair thoughtfully. "Live off the land mostly. Don't have the heart to butcher my animals, but I sell milk from the cows and goats There's folks around here who like to turn it into cheese and they'll give me some for free. I shear the sheep and sell the wool to fiber and fabric stores nearby. Little things like that, mostly enough to pay for feedin' the animals. I do all my own maintenance. Haven't had a machine die on me in a few years. So we're gettin' by."

"It's a very honorable life you lead, sir," the carpenter decreed, clinking bottles with the farmer. "I'd love to help you out, if you'd let me. I hunt in the fall, I'll buy more tags and give you some of the meat I harvest."

"Sounds delicious," the farmer replied with a satisfied smile, "they make good burgers, I'm happy to make some for you and the rest of guys at your job site some time."

"Sounds like a deal," the carpenter nodded, finishing off his beer.

"I gotta get going, but I'll be right up the road workin' for at least the next six months or so. I'll stop by more often, check in on you and that escape artist of a sheep."

The farmer laughed, banging his hand on the table with a loud thud.

"That damn sheep," he snorted, shaking his head with doomed pride. "She's an old gal, I'm sure you and her will cross paths again one of these days. No fence holds her long."

"I gotta ask for the next time I see her," the carpenter sighed, turning back to the farmer before heading out the door. "What's that sheep's name?"

The farmer chuckled. "Butter. I'm tellin' ya. Slipperier than an eel."