Sheep Media

They never wanted to return to their prison.
So Mike would target the oldest female, Medea, for coaxing
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I was foraging for an old ball of string in the attic, when I found this old diary of a human “shepherd” named Mike. A shepherd, by the way, was a type of human slave-master for another species – in this case, sheep. This kind of human slave-master – a shepherd – would control dozens or even hundreds of another mammal species in order to shave off their hair or kill them and eat their muscle tissue.

Mike was the master of fourteen sheep, mostly females, and only one of these animal slaves was black. Every day, Mike would take the sheep out of their confinement pen, and lead them to an open field. They were always thrilled to get out and needed no convincing or prodding to leave confinement.

Once he was far away from the crowds at the historic park, Mike would slip his earbuds on and take his prisoners to some faraway patch of green grass. Once there, it was time to lay on the grass listening to Adam and the Ants, while the sheep peacefully enjoyed the saladosphere that human hero Mike had found for them.

To get them back to their confinement compound at the end of the day was much more difficult. It’s like they never wanted to return to their prison. So Mike would target the oldest female, Medea, for coaxing.

Medea was the mother of more than half of the other sheep, and the grandmother of a few of the others, so she was the one that most of the other sheep listened to and respected. Most of them had been fed directly by Medea when they were lambs so she was the go-to sheep to manipulate if you wanted to influence all the other sheep.

When it was time to get the sheep back into confinement, Mike would simply push Medea’s head into a bucket of delicious grain and dried fruits, and she would then baaah loudly. “Baa-aaah!”

What this means, in our Modern Feline language, is “Food, this way! Food this way!” Medea could hardly breathe between baa-aahs and mouthfuls of the delicious morcels of oats, dried raisins and parsley.

Of course, her baahing was problematic. What she was really saying was “Food for me this way!” For her and her alone.

But Sheep dialects being what they were back in those days – the baahing wasn’t sophisticated enough to communicate the “for me” part of the exclamation. So while she meant “Delicious food for me this way! Yahoo!,” all the sheep heard was “Delicious food this way, yahoo!”

(Today, of course, Sheep are schooled to differentiate between “for me” and “for us” when they baaah. But this story is from a human diary written a hundred years before human extinction, so it’s Olde Sheep, as opposed to Modern Sheep baaahing.)

Once they got back into their lockdown pens, they would find the same boring feeding boxes full of the same dry, boring hay. They fell for this trick every single time, believing that the words of Medea – in the way that they understood them – were like a family gospel.

This small sheep community lived through the same false hope for delicious food  followed by the same disappointing dry hay each and every day. But they all felt that to not respect and follow Medea’s inarticulate baahing was like treason against group solidarity and family ties. No one wanted to be seen as an outsider who didn’t respect “family.” Even if that meant following a flawed understanding of that family member time and time again to the same dead end.

Mike called the specially mixed combination of grains and fruit that he gave Medea each day “Advertising Revenue.”

(A year later,  the sheep all contracted a fatal illness from the lead-based paint on their feeder and died. Their fur was shaved off of their dead carcases, but humans didn’t dare to eat their contaminated muscle and fat tissue.)

>”<

Trendy City Cats

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1974

The Beatles will never get back together again is what we hear on the car radio for five hours, as we’re driving to Victoria City to visit my Dad’s family. They live in the capital and biggest city.

His parents live right in the center of the historic downtown  which, at the time, is full of young, scruffy adults with long hair who wear loose beige clothing, pay little to no rent, and provide the smellscape with organic substances to counteract the smell of lead in the gasoline exhaust we’re all breathing.

I escape a boring television day to visit the next-door neighbors, the Boudreau family. They live in the mirror of my grandparent’s two-story townhouse. Their grandfather, Erwin Boudreau, is always around doing jigsaw puzzles and sneaking sips of gin from under the kitchen sink.

Even though Erwin (Mr. Boudreau to me) grew up in the Acadian Peninsula speaking only French, his parents named him Erwin after one of the biggest entrepreneurs in the region – Erwin McKacey. Virtually no one in his village could pronounce his name properly, so they called him Wing.

Granpa Wing’s namesake, Erwin J. McKacey, inherited some money selling land that was taken from the Tic Tac First Nations, and over time, his family managed to claw together local monopolies in copper mining, gasoline distribution, logging, and mass media, and was considered a hero by his own mass media empire. Which is what everyone watched.

In my grandparent’s day, people believed that naming a son after someone rich and famous might mean that this boy might get to finish at least grade 5 and weigh at least a hundred pounds at adulthood. This kind of thinking is sometimes called Cargo Cult thinking. Erwin McKacey lived to 95 years despite his lifelong obesity, and his monopolies turned both Steel City and Victoria City into tangles of highways, suburban lawns, and strip malls surrounded by monoculture forests sprayed with dangerous chemicals every year.

In any case, Jimmy Boudreau, the grandson who’s around my age, is taking me on a tour of their townhouse on a rainy day. I just found out that Jimmy has no idea who Erwin J. McKacey is while we were talking. His parents own a VW van, and feed all the local wild cats in their coal shed porch. At any one time, there are between 20 and 40 cats eating snacks and using  their porch and backyard.

The smell of cat urine, coal dust, and a dank mystery smell (pot, I suspect), greets us as we enter the back porch. Opening the inside storm door, Grandad – Wing Boudreau – is standing with a full glass of gin and some anti-depressants in his hands.

1899

“This new generation only understand trends! They can’t think for themselves!”

I guess we walked in on a rant. I love old person rants! Erwin Boudreau was born in 1899, so his rants often have a turn-of-century sense of urgency.

“That screen door is useless! They saw someone’s cheap new bungalow had one, and so they had to have the same damn thing. As seen on TV! Cripes, what a mindless generation of tube heads. Just like that van. Hippy’s gotta have a van even if they can’t afford the gasoline for it! I should have forced them to play outside when they were kids!”

The tube is what we  call the TV we watch every day as a family. I can’t believe he’s insulting such an important and pleasant influence on every family I know. For me, this is like mocking God or capitalism.

“Your family are the worst, Qatzel!” He smiles while popping two orange pills into his mouth. “Suburbia, big car, company man… your parents are just following trends they saw on TV. They never saw a trend they didn’t want to follow!”

This is where Jimmy’s mom pops in and drags Wing back to his room to do jigsaw puzzles before he causes too much harm. We enter the kitchen now that he’s gone. There’s a piece of string art on the wall, and a pet rock sits next to a box on a shelf. The kitchen wall is a mural of a rainbow over Niagara Falls, and the whole scene is accentuated by the red-orange plastic chairs and table. The radio is blaring in the kitchen, and the television is blaring in the living room.

“I’m trying to talk my parents into buying me Levi’s this year,” I confide to Jimmy, just as a way of changing the subject. He nods like he knows why.

Just then, the overwhelming stench of cat urine and coal (and pot) forces us back out into the yard to play where the rain seems to have stopped.

…