The Dead Sheep

I came home from the city to find a dead sheep on my doorstep. I might have fallen over it, if the porch light hadn’t come on as I walked up the drive and illuminated its bedraggled, spread-eagled form. It might have been sleeping, but for the fact that it was dead. I looked at it. It looked at nothing; its tongue protruding from the side of its mouth.


It was, on the whole, not what I had expected to come home to after a heavy night out. But there it was, and it wasn’t going to go anywhere of its own accord. 


Groggily, my head suggested that perhaps it wasn’t proper to have a dead sheep on your doorstep in Penny Drive. Was there, perhaps even a law against it? It seemed quite plausible that there might be. 


I pondered on the situation. I could hardly drag the thing into the house; it would make a terrible mess on the cream carpet. But I didn’t want to leave it on the doorstep either; to embarrassingly reveal itself to the postman, and the world, in the morning. 


There was only one thing for it, I decided. I went to the shed and, using the torch on my phone, located a spade. 


It took three hours to quietly dig a hole in ...

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Rod Webb
Jul 18 2020

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I can't resist chuckling either!

Paul Sterlini
Jul 23 2020

Hilarious, loved it.

Tony Spencer
Jul 19 2020