The Bad ShepherdS

The three hellhounds corralled the baby sheep away from the herd, hunting him down like a pride of lions taking down a wildebeest on the Serengeti. As I gave chase—yelling commands they couldn’t understand—they wrestled the poor lamb to the ground. Teeth gnashing, they set upon the little guy with all the zest of wolves gone rogue. I was sure he was a goner, and for a moment, I worried what might happen to me if I tried to intercede. But in I went…

Let me back up for just a moment.  We’d been touring the colorful, chaotic beauty of Morocco for a week when we arrived at Le Petit Fellah, an organic farm, for a 10-day work-stay. The friendly farmer Taha greeted us and wasted no time putting us to work, teaching us how to guide his 35 sheep and a few goats out to pasture, around the field, and back to their enclosure. This whole process took about two hours and happened twice a day.

On day one, under Taha’s and his fellow farmer Ahmed’s watchful eyes, we thought we’d done a pretty good job moving the herd out and back. The next day, however, Taha informed us he and Ahmed had "other business" to attend to, so we’d be taking the sheep out alone. Pride swelled—after all, shepherding must be a very Important task if it involved animals that contributed to the farm's prosperity. We’d barely had one day of training, yet Farmer Taha trusted us enough to go solo!

Only later did we discover shepherding was hardly regarded as the farm’s most skilled job. In fact, most farmers considered it four hours of “quiet time,” where someone else—namely, us—could handle the basics while they got other work done.

Oblivious to this fact, we puffed out our chests and led the herd towards the pasture. And by “led,” I mean we followed them. The sheep knew the way so well they’d have gone on their own if we weren’t there.

That day, it was just Ryan and me, as the girls had been wrangled into some other task. No matter—two of us could easily handle shepherding. After all, Ahmed usually did it alone. What Taha failed to mention was that the dogs—of which there were plenty on the farm—were less helpful than we’d assumed.

At best, they circled the sheep, startling them in the exact opposite direction we wanted. At worst, they whipped the sheep into a frenzy, sending them hurtling en masse into the neighboring farm, with the dogs in full pursuit, spurring them on like they were in some kind of wild relay race.

We quickly learned that the dogs were a challenge, but on the way out, things mostly stayed under control. Until, that is, Thor—a lovable yet mischievous Doberman—got a bit too close and sent the entire herd hurtling at top speed onto the neighbor’s farm and out of sight.

Ryan and I sprinted after them, but by the time we arrived, the herd had vanished. All we found were the three dogs—Thor and two stray recruits, Milka and Pablo, who Taha had picked up—standing around trying to look innocent.

“Holy crap!” I thought. “Did those bastards eat ALL the sheep?”

Realistically, I knew they hadn’t had the time, but panic has a way of clouding judgment. I looked at Ryan, and I could tell he was thinking the same thing I was: “Oh, crap—we’ve lost the flock on our first solo shepherding run.”

Thankfully, they weren’t lost; they’d just squeezed behind a few large trees. Not exactly trees big enough to hide an entire flock, but somehow, there they were, all forty sheep and goats, tightly packed to avoid the dogs.

Relief washed over us; we’d averted a crisis without calling for help. But the reprieve was short-lived. As we began to move the sheep back, Milka, Pablo, and Thor singled out a baby lamb and started chasing him down the hill. I yelled at them to stop, but they either didn’t understand my English (their native tongue being Arabic) or just didn’t care.

As they tackled the lamb, I feared the worst, but I pursued anyway. Just as I got within reach, the dogs paused and looked up, giving the lamb a split-second chance to bolt—right past me and back towards the neighbor’s farm. The dogs gave chase, and so did I.

Thankfully, the lamb managed to reach the vegetable patch and hid behind a bush. I reached him quickly, leaving Ryan in charge of the rest of the flock, praying he could keep them calm. Trying to grab the lamb by his baby horns, I was promptly butted in the leg, and off he went again, down the road, with the dogs hot on his heels.

This time, he wedged himself between a cement wall and a thorn bush, refusing to budge no matter how I prodded. The dogs watched nearby, waiting to see if I’d get their "prey" back in play.

At this point, Taha had come looking for us. He called me on WhatsApp, his preferred method of communication, to check on things. As he reached us, he got the dogs under control and helped herd the lamb back to safety.

It was a humbling experience that definitely took us down a peg or two. But we were determined to improve, and over the following week, we grew more proficient, handling the herd twice a day. And we learned to either leave the dogs behind or keep them leashed. 

At the end of the day, these are the kinds of world-schooling experiences we were hoping for when we started this adventure.