The hot summer days were coming to an end and Gloria was enjoying life. Her children had gone and the days were just about relaxing without any responsibility.
She was nibbling away through her favourite field, occasionally laying down, looking at the countryside around her, surrounded by her friends. She closed her eyes ready for a nap.
She heard footsteps behind her, but thought she would ignore them.
“Hi honey, can I tempt you? You’re looking really good, and I really fancy you”.
“Go away”.
“You know you want to see me. You’re just playing hard to get”.
“You’re the last person I want to see or be anywhere near. I just want peace and quiet”.
Gloria looked over her shoulder and there he was – gosh he was handsome and would give her some beautiful lambs, but she wasn’t going to let him think he could have his way easily.
“You know it’s that time again”
“No, you’re too early and I’m not in the mood”
“Oh go on, let’s have a bit of practice”
“Go away and bother the others”
“Spoilsport, you know you’re my favourite”
Gloria watched Rambo swagger away, his wool bouncing with every overconfident step. Honestly, she thought, if he strutted any harder he’d need his own warning sign. The other ewes giggled as he approached, and Gloria rolled her eyes. He was incorrigible. And he knew it. Rambo, the self‑proclaimed handsomest, most robust ram in three counties, sauntered off to find another ewe—preferably one less experienced than Gloria, who knew perfectly well when the time was right.
Two weeks later, when he returned, he looked even more polished. He’d clearly spent the morning rubbing himself against the gate to fluff up his fleece. Gloria suspected he’d even rolled in wild thyme to smell “mysterious and rugged,” though to her it just made him smell like the over-seasoned roast wafting from the farmhouse kitchen.
“Hi honey, can I tempt you? You’re looking really gorgeous today, and you turn me on.”
Gloria looked over her shoulder. He was handsome, she had to admit, and he would give her beautiful lambs. But she wasn’t letting him off lightly.
“Well maybe,” she said, “but you never think about the aftermath. You just turn up, do your little dance, and trot off like a hero. Meanwhile I’m left waddling around like a woolly barrel with legs.”
She carried on whilst she had his attention “You aren’t the one that has 5 months of having to eat non stop 8 to12 hours a day to build two lambs inside me – you know I always have twins. I have to build a really thick coat of wool to keep me and the babies warm. Then I have to give birth – not great fun, especially with the size of the lambs I produce, and then I have to clean them up, and then 6 weeks feeding them on milk I produce – I don’t just pop to the supermarket. It’s hard work. Then if the farmer thinks I’m past my best I might go to the slaughterhouse – not like you, just eating yourself silly all year, with a couple of months of chasing the other girls across the valley.
Rambo blinked. “I mean… yes… but you do it so gracefully and a wonderful mother. And you are so special to me”. This charming act was exhausting.
“Gracefully? Last year I got stuck in a hedge trying to reach an itch. They had to send three sheepdogs and a farmer with a rope. I was huge”.
Rambo shuffled his hooves. “Still… you’re magnificent.”
Gloria sighed. He was ridiculous. But he was charming in that hopeless, grass‑for-brains way. And he was handsome. And she did want lambs again.
“Fine,” she said. “But no showing off this time. And absolutely no singing.”
Rambo brightened. “Deal! Although my singing is very popular.”
“Among crows,” Gloria said. “Only crows.”
She stood, shook out her fleece, and muttered, “Right then. Let’s get this over with before you compose a ballad.”
The Lambs Arrive
Winter crept in slowly, and Gloria grew rounder by the week. Rambo visited occasionally, usually to boast about how many ewes he’d “helped” this season, but he always ended up hovering awkwardly around Gloria, pretending he wasn’t worried. He’d ask things like, “How’s… uh… the situation?” while staring at her belly as though it might suddenly explode.
By early spring, Gloria felt like she was carrying two small boulders wrapped in wool. The other ewes fussed around her, offering advice she didn’t ask for.
“Try lying on your left side,” said Mabel.
“Eat more nettles,” said Doris.
“Have you tried humming? I hummed through my last lambing,” said Ivy, who hummed so badly that even the sheepdogs avoided her.
Gloria ignored them all. She’d done this before. She knew what she was doing.
One crisp morning, after a night of grumbling at her own stomach, she felt the familiar tightening. “Right,” she muttered, “here we go again.” The flock gathered at a respectful distance, except Rambo, who hovered so close she could feel his breath on her ears.
“Do you want me to fetch the farmer?” he asked, panicking.
“No,” Gloria said.
“Should I get the dogs?”
“No.”
“Should I—”
“Rambo,” she said firmly, “go stand over there outside my pen and try not to faint.”
To his credit, he obeyed. And within a short while, two sturdy lambs arrived — one with Gloria’s calm eyes, the other with Rambo’s ridiculous confidence already shining through. Gloria cleaned them, nudged them upright, and watched them wobble on their new legs. Then they sought out the milk source.
Rambo trotted over, chest puffed out. “Look at them! Aren’t they magnificent? They’re definitely mine — look at that stance!”
Gloria snorted. “They’re standing because I told them to. And don’t get too proud yet. You’ll disappear for the rest of the year while I raise them.”
But as the lambs nuzzled into her fleece, she felt that familiar warmth — the one that made all the hard work worth it. Rambo leaned in, surprisingly gentle.
“You’re amazing, you know,” he said.
“I know,” Gloria replied. “Now go away before you start singing again.”
Rambo trotted off happily, humming anyway, while Gloria settled down with her new babies, already planning how to teach them not to inherit their father’s ego.
Anne Simpson