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Diary of a Cartoonist---Sheep Attack



Last night me and the Kalashnikov Kid had an adventure.

We decided to go to a local dark sky area and take in the whole stars-at-night-without-the-added-interference-of light- pollution, thing. And as an added bonus, we got to see how nature goes to bed when no one’s looking. This we watched from the comfort of the car and to the accompaniment of a gently babbling brook and the popping of Budweiser bottle tops.

Within half an hour of night falling the show began. About 150 sheep turned up from nowhere and started milling around the car; rubbing themselves against the wheels and bumpers while looking into the windows with menaces. Honestly, these normally docile creatures seemed to get a little moon touched when the dark fell. They became obnoxious, pushy and a little scary. Even their bleating took on an onerous tone.

I turned to point this little oddity out to Stef, who was busying herself thumbing through the lamb section of her communist cookbook and didn't seem that bothered. But when I turned back I swear the nearest sheep to the window winked at me. And I'm not afraid to admit that it made me feel a tad concerned; totally irrational I know, but reading one too many Stephen King books can do that to you.

Anyway, the Kalashnikov Kid must’ve sensed my unease as she put her book down with a sigh, wondering---not for the first time---how these people ever managed to organise an empire. So I brought her attention to the 150 sheep around the car, that even now were having their numbers swelled by more from a neighbouring valley. Their distant bleating grew with intensity as they poured down the hillside like the froth from an overflowing bottle of beer, only with the dark intent of a wave of Scottish Clans, looking for a Bannockburn.

Stef, of course showed no fear. I, on the other hand, did not hold a good account of myself, and it would be mentioned in dispatches that I lost my shit around the time that one of the sheep began fashioning a theft hook out of an old coat hanger.

The rest was a blur of ignition switches, squealing wheels, spitting gravel, flying wool, angry bleating’s and lot of screaming and hand break turns. I eventually wheel span out of the car park with the Kalashnikov Kid still hanging out the car window, trying to catch something for supper.

On a final note, the stars were, so I was told later by an awe struck Kalashnikov Kid, particularly beautiful that night. Not that I could tell, as I was screaming hysterically for about three quarters of the journey home.


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All artwork and the written word are copyright Karl Dixon