It was July, and I was about to turn five in August. The start of kindergarten awaited me in September, and my family was preparing for the arrival of my little brother, who was due in September.
Earlier that spring, we had moved to the family farm following the sudden accidental death of my uncle Ronald, my father’s older brother. My grandparents wanted my father, the next son in line, to take over the farm. My late uncle’s wife and my cousins had moved back to her hometown in Michigan.
As was customary on many farms, a portion of our yard was fenced off for sheep, which helped keep the weeds down. I was warned not to enter that area because a particularly mean buck sheep was known to bunt people.
When it came time to feed the sheep, I was eager to join in. My father and I drove the farm truck to the local elevator to buy sheep food and then entered the fenced yard. My dad reminded me to stay in the truck for my safety, cautioning me yet again about the buck sheep.
Unloading the feed was taking longer than I expected, and boredom crept in. Curious about what was going on, I looked around and didn’t see the buck sheep anywhere. I carefully opened the truck door, eased out, and walked to the back of the truck.
Suddenly, without warning, I was tumbling head over heels and crashed into a pail. I don’t remember seeing the sheep, nor do I know exactly how it happened, but the clanging sound of the pail is still clear in my memory.
I began to wail while my dad quickly jumped between me and the buck sheep, which was preparing to charge at me again. I saw the fear on his face as he scooped me up, noticing blood pouring from the side of my head where I’d hit the pail.
My dad carried me up to the house, where everyone gathered to check my injury. My grandfather was there, and my mom examined the wound, saying it looked deep and I would need stitches.
We headed to the emergency room in Spring Valley, where the nurse took one look at my head with blood still seeping through the towel my mom was holding on my head, and I was quickly admitted and taken to an exam room.
The doctor asked me to follow his flashlight with my eyes and tell him my name and age. I proudly shared that I was almost five and would be starting kindergarten that fall, making sure to include my middle name. The doctor commented to my dad, “smart kid,” though I didn’t realize he was checking my mental status.
He explained that I needed stitches and would first receive numbing medicine, warning me of a prick. The first injection was bearable, but repeated pricks became overwhelming, and I screamed. Fortunately, the medicine worked, and I didn’t feel the stitches being sewn. I ended up with about twelve stitches for what was an impressive gash.
When we returned home, my mom gave me a stern lecture about the importance of listening and following instructions. She pointed out how not obeying could lead to serious consequences, reminding me that I was lucky the sheep hadn’t done more harm. She was quite upset, and said that the sheep “might have killed me”.
Despite the warning, I was soon surrounded by hugs and kisses from everyone in the family. They expressed how fortunate I was and how grateful they felt that my injuries weren’t worse. Their concern and affection made me feel loved, though I also felt a bit embarrassed for not minding my parents. It became clear to me that their rules and warnings were meant to protect me and keep me safe.
Copyright © 2025 Jan Carr
I keep coming back to your story, Jan. It’s so odd that children and city folks think that sheep are always cuddly and docile. I am glad that you weren’t banged and cut up more than you were. Yes I understand why you have held this memory for so long. Thanks for your story!
Great story
Hi Jan,
I enjoyed reading your piece about your encounter with a sheep . So glad your dad was nearby. We so often have clear memories of traumatic events even at a very young age. Perhaps this sharpens our judgment as we age? Thanks for sharing.
Carol Fish