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Archive for the ‘Pawnee Kitty and Angus’ Category

Dear Hamish,

Thank you for the prompt reply in regards to the bagpipes. I have them. And no, I will not be learning how to play them. More on that in a bit. I was sorry to hear the twins practiced their first aide skills on your and put a potent glue in the plaster mix. I hope you’ve been able to chip your hooves out it by now. Thankfully they only did your hind hooves. I told them there’d be no prezzies for their birthdays if they continue to abuse you.

Back to the bagpipes.

I got them. Pawnee was all nosy when they arrive. She wanted to blow into the canter. I took it away and stomped on a paw. Sometimes one has to be harsh.

“Nay,” I said. “‘Tis me security system.”

“How?” she asked as that dreadful Penny crept closer.

It’s because of the kitty, the nonPawnee Kitty kitty, I got this you know. She loves me wool and sees me as a toy. She doesn’t even listen to Pawnee and all the cats around here does what she says. These Texan kitties are bold.

“I’ll show you.” With that I primed up the bagpipes. Gave a few good squeezes, music spiraling out. Pawnee winced. Penny skipped back a few hops.

I blew. Then, marching, and playing what I remember from school, I headed out to the middle of the room. Penny ran away. Pawnee ran away. It was lovely.

Now I can go wherever I want. Now all I have to do is reach a hoof to me bagpipes and Penny runs off, ears low while Pawnee cringes and squishes her ears and eyes shut. I really should have thought of this sooner.

Thank you again,

your friend in the colonies,

Angus. McSheep.

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Dear Hamish,

Thank you for the prezzie! ‘Tis bonney!!! A football signed by the great ‘Smasher’ Hoof. I have put it in view and safe away from paws of all shapes and sizes. I am sorry to hear about the Christmas cracker. Who knew they could explode in one’s face like that. I hope your nose is better now after being singed. And you’re correct, ‘tis reasonable to think the twins were behind this.

Now, me Christmas. I got plenty of food items including hay, oats, grains and the like. All very tasty. The twins knitted me a tam with Christmas trees on it and some things I canna tell what. They are either knots or Christmas lights. Heather’s side came out better then Peat’s, as you can see by the photo I sent. I don’t know what the strings are for or the white dots. ‘Tis a bit small and once I get me horns, I won’t be able to wear it anymore. I hope to grow me horns very soon, but so far there’s nary a bump or an itch on the top of me head. I worry sometimes I’ll never get them and then where will all the potential sweeties go? No ewe wants a ram with no horns.

Pawnee Kitty’s bunch came to spend the holidays or whatever. They don’t really celebrate, but enjoy the goings-on. Me one foot rule is working although waking up and finding them sitting close by, staring at me, purring, is a bit unnerving. They pat their paws together and hug themselves as if hugging me.

I was glad when they wandered off to wherever they live, only I still had to contend with Pawnee Kitty. She launched me into the Christmas tree. As I dangled there from a limb, she tossed tinsels and ornaments at me yelling: Don’t let it drop! I’ll be right there! Hey, you dropped some tinsel! Like sheep climb ‘round trees as if we’re monkeys. Me mood dinna got better when she smelled food and hurried off to get her share and then forgot about me. For hours. The person had to rescue me. If the tree had been real and not a fake one, I may have had to eat part of it.

That’s is all for now. Me scones are done and I wish to partake, besides the smells attract Pawnee.

Your friend,

Angus. McSheep.

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Letter to Family – Thank You Christmas 2018

Dear Da, Ma, and the twins,

I wish to thank you for all the well wishes and prezzies you have sent. Ye dinna have to as postage is nae cheap, but I do appreciate it and am glad for all especially the sweets. One canna get them here. Here, they have sugar in them and are unhealthy for me wool, teeth, and insides.

The bow tie fits quite well. I put it on right away and think I am quite handsome with it. See Hamish for a picture. I am also wearing me Christmas tam the twins knitted. It is quite smart especially when one considers they worked on it together, at the same time. I will wear the Christmas tam all through the season.

I had me a fine Christmas, tho’ I did miss me family. I listened to baas and saw several Shaun the Sheep episodes, just like at home. There are no sheep close by so I couldna visit them. I did have photos of you around me.

The person with whom I share a space let me celebrate with her family. I helped decorate the tree and got a Christmas plate of hay, oats, and wheat, and other grasses and grains. They were tasty. There was even mountain hay, but not from Scotland. It is not as sweet.

Thank you again. I look forward to our New Year’s telephone call. You can tell me what the Queen said.

Your son and brother,

Angus. McSheep. (Wee Angus)

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Dear Hamish,

Thank you for the pictures. It is always nice to see the pasture and all the familiar faces. I am sorry to hear about the extra sour pickle you bit into. The twins, who are no doubt responsible since no one else ate a sour pickle, were coated in brine sauce. Me Grandmums, both, had to take them home and wash and wring them out. One can only hope they learned a lesson.

Your pickle story reminded me of a pleasant memory. It actually started with me calling Pawnee a picklehead. The silly ewe thought it was a complement even though she doesna eat pickles. She thinks I adore pickles. I was thinking of the hot stuff pickles floating in brine in their own individual pickle bags at the grocers. As if I would ever eat that.

It brought back memories of Pickle Day in the pasture. Remember, how we waited, and then danced about when eight to twelve sheep carried the pickle to the pasture. We lambs would crowd around, watching, waiting with excitement, our eyes trained on the pickle glistening with drops of water after having the brine washed away.

‘Twas almost as good as Cucumber Day.

Then your da and his mates would come to saw slices off the pickle. As if it were the logs they sawed, aye. When each disc fell from the main piece, it’d be distributed, first to the grandmums and granddas and then to the wee lambs.

Pickle Day.

Gets me right in the mood for a pickle.

Must go and find one now,

Yours, from the Colonies

Angus. McSheep.

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Dear Hamish,

Happy December to you. I enjoyed talking to you on the mobile and hearing all the latest news. I hope Fat Malcolm gets over his foot rot soon. It sends shiver down me wool to hear of that. Then again, only he would stand out in the rain and in a puddle. I was sorry to hear about your poor burnt tail. Luckily there was the puddle near by for you to sit in. The twins were awfully quiet when I called me Mum. I’m sure it was them.

So, we had a holiday here, aye. Thanksgiving. It makes me legs go all wobbly thinking on how the colonists delight at the slaughter of millions of turkey. At expressing my disgust of this barbaric practice, Pawnee Kitty, the lover of all things turkey, said she’d skip turkey for the holiday. I didn’t believe her one minute.

Of course a day later, I realized that she doesn’t even consider Thanksgiving a holiday especially since it celebrates the arrival of ComeOvers. Her kind call all but American Indians (Native Americans), ComeOvers. It’s derived from ‘They came over by boat’. Which should really make it CameOvers, but I won’t debate the intricacies of the English language with her anymore. She says I should be happy she even speaks a foreign language. I’d be happy if she didn’t and stayed out on the prairie.

Pawnee asked me if I wanted to visit some turkeys. I had me doubts on that. Turkeys are larger than chickens and you know how they can be.

We’ll be far enough away? I asked.
Turkeys won’t hurt you, she said.

I youtubed turkeys and what I saw, Hamish. It’s enough to make the quality of one’s wool go bad. There are turkey gangs that terrorize whole neighborhoods! Aye. Even the postman won’t come and deliver mail. People run off in their motorcars to get away.

I went to find Pawnee right away to say: I will not go with you to see a turkey. They are violent. They have gangs!
Oh, you saw those videos too? Aren’t they great?

I am wondering if we saw the same videos. Knowing Pawnee Kitty, we have.

They’ll run me over and peck me to death and nibble on me poor body. I’ll nae see a live turkey, I tell her. In the end, I go off to see a movie to calm me nerves. Then I watch me some ‘Life in the Pasture’ videos. When you are here, we’ll see them all. We’ll binge watch.

Another happy December to you,

From the colonies,

Angus. McSheep.

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Dear Hamish

Thank you for the post card from your trip to Glasgow. ‘Tis bonny you got to attend a class at university on veterinarian medicine. I was sorry to hear how you were ambushed on your way back home with a pretend case of the sheep pox the twins made up. I am hoping the dots they put on their skin will last a long long time. ‘Tis a pity their wool will grow over it.

Pawnee has gone on a writing kick and has moved from Haiku’s to ‘serious, sheep-related fiction with depth and feeling.’ If you can figure that out, let me know. So far it’s all about Ian Ian McSheepface going off to work. What work he does I dinna know because so far he dinna has made it.

I hope I’ve gotten her to stop, but with that silly kitty you never know. She’s probably cranking out Ian Ian McSheepface stories like she did her horrid haiku. Although some were actually nice except they were of cats. The haiku, not the stories.

Maybe I shall write a sheep story. Maybe I won’t. I am leaning toward the latter.

Must go, have a client for new croft for me to build.

Will speak later,

Yours, from the colonies

Angus. McSheep.

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Ian Ian Sheepface limped. He had foot rot and a huge crack ran across his hoof. It was a life and death situation. The damp of the grass blades didn’t help. ‘Me leg is going to fall off,” he bleated.

That was the beginning of my most exciting sheep story. A story should be exciting and have a hook. How was I supposed to know Angus and his sheep friends like boring books. I had to revise it. A lot.

Ian Ian Sheepface frolicked across the pasture. His hooves sparkled and shone. It was a fun day. The grass tasted good and he partook of it as he skipped to work. ‘Me legs feel bouncy,’ he bleated.

That was my second attempt. Angus didn’t like the name of my main character. He said mini-sheep do not ‘frolic’ on their way to work. Work is serious business and no sheep has ever said their legs felt bouncy.

Ian trudged from his croft to his workplace . His hooves had been gone over with care the night before. It was foggy, but the day would get clear soon. Since he had breakfast in his croft, he didn’t sample the grass. ‘Baa,’ he bleated.

“How’s that?” I asked.

“Horrible. Which Ian do you write about?” Angus.

“It’s a make believe Ian.” Me.

“I know several Ians. Sheep and non-sheep. The farmer’s dog’s pup is Ian. I don’t like him. He chased me across the pasture.” Angus.

I made a note to change the name of the sheep. “Liam? Billy? Buddy?” It occurs to me I don’t know a lot of Scottish names. “Rory?”

“What are ye blithering on about? It’s a bad story. Leave it to others.”

I wasn’t going to stop so easy. I happen to think I write real well.

“Rory walked to work. He walked through the pasture and the lush, green, tasty grass. Baa.”

“Which Rory did you write about? I have an Uncle Rory. If you write about grass you need more details. Taste, sensory details. Texture. Type of grass. Better not write of it at all.”

So I didn’t and this is my final take.

The mini-sheep went to work.

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