Martha and her twins in the front field on May 5th, 2006
When I moved in with my hunky farmguy Joe 11 years ago, I brought 14 sheep (and a bunch of other critters) with me from my old farm. Martha, who died today, was the last surviving ewe.
She was 14 years old, which, as Joe reminded me, "is probably longer than sheep are supposed to live." (My 15-year-old pet wether Big Chip, the last of the original 14, is still miraculously with us, and still loves to give hugs. His brother, Skinny Chip, died last year. I called them The Chippers.)
Martha, who was sometimes known as the World's Best Pillow, had about the best life a sheep could ask for, though I'm sure she would have liked a few thousand more pounds of grain. A couple of months ago Joe started referring to her as Every Sheep because she demanded a treat whenever any other sheep was being fed—and she could hear the rustle of a grain bucket from half a mile away.
She was the loudest sheep I've ever known—which is saying something—and she was never one to keep her opinions to herself. Basically she never shut up. But in a good way. Mostly.
