Moving on.

It took me several years, many counselling sessions, and a whole lot of whinging to get over Tommy’s betrayal. Around the time I was about to turn nine, my mum and dad decided that it might be good for me to have another animal to take my mind off Tommy. So, for my ninth birthday, I received a tiny, black-and-white puppy. As I watched it roll around on the kitchen floor, my dad informed me that it was definitely a girl, and commanded me to give it an appropriate name. Ignoring his sarcastic overtones, I knelt down on the floor and beckoned to the puppy to come towards me, which it did. It put its front paws on my knees, and in one incredibly fast movement, jumped up and stole the bobble out of my hair.

I wasn’t very amused, but everyone else was. The puppy held fast to my bobble, as I chased it around the kitchen yelling, “Come back! Gimme my bobble, you wee rascal!”. And so, my puppy had a name. Rascal. In the next few weeks, Rascal learned to live up to her name by escaping from the yard – often returning with a stolen doughnut or sausage roll – and capturing as many of my brightly-coloured hair bobbles as possible.

Despite her misdemeanours, Rascal and I soon became fast friends, much like Tommy and I had, years before. When I wasn’t at school, I’d be with her, taking her for walks or playing with her. Once, she missed me so much she even came to visit me at school. I was so proud to find her sitting outside the school gate, waiting patiently for me to get out. Everyone around was admiring her lovely manners, her shiny black-and-white coat, and her sparkling brown eyes.

I was pretty sure my affection for Rascal was reciprocated, until, one day, she was quite simply gone. When I got home from school, her collar was in the yard, but there was no sign of her. The gate was locked. It was a mystery – like Left Behind for dogs. The thought that Rascal had been raptured and gone to doggy heaven without me was unbearable. I wanted to be where she was. I wept, bitterly, for about three days, prompting much laughter from my insensitive dad and brothers.

To this day, I still have no idea where Rascal went. If anyone knows, could they please leave a comment? Thanks.

Ach, my wee pet lamb…

Back in the days when life was simple, I was absolutely obsessed with animals. Living in the ‘Clug, there wasn’t much scope for pets. The yard was too small for a dog, and half of the family are allergic to cats. Mum hated hamsters because they kept you up by chewing on things in the middle of the night, Gerbils because they reminded her of rats, and rabbits because they dug the garden up.

In the spring of 1997, I was playing in the sand pit in my granny’s yard, when she came out and said to me, “Your dad’s got a sheep for you”. You might not be too surprised to hear that this piece of information made absolutely no sense to my six-year-old mind, but I was rather a quiet child and was too scared to ask any further questions. There was no way that she meant a real, living sheep. How would we care for that in Millfield?

I’m sure you can imagine my utter astonishment when my dad appeared carrying a young lamb in his arms and placed it in the boot of the car. My dad, a man of few words, looked at me and said, “In!”. Not at all inclined to disobey, I climbed into the back of the car, still questioning what I thought I had just seen.

The drive home was horrible. The little lamb didn’t like the bumps in the road, so we could hear it bleating away in the boot. “Baaah!”, it went. I cried. It must be awful to be a lamb who’s been stuffed into the boot of a car, I thought. I completely forgot about how bad I felt for the lamb, though, when we arrived at home and dad lifted it out and handed it to me.

“Ta-ta, Daddy!” I exclaimed.

“Huh.” Grunted my dad in approval.

“Baaah!” Said the lamb, struggling to break free of my grip.

We made a bed for it in the garage that night, and during the day it was allowed to graze in the garden. I would get up at 6am every morning to feed it with a baby’s bottle before school. This being the 90s, my brothers and I came up with the perfect name: Tommy, the white ranger. I loved my sheep. He was my best friend. Every waking moment was spent with Tommy, who quickly learned to follow me everywhere. I fed him three times a day, played with him and put him to bed every night. I’d even clean his wool, so it was beautifully white.

There was many a funny event during this time. The time Tommy followed me halfway to school is among the most notable, as is the time he got into the house and was chased around the living room by a gang of screaming children. All good thing must come to an end, though, and Tommy was eventually too big to live in my back garden. We both bleated in protest when we were separated , but I was sure that it was for the best. Tommy would be going to my uncle’s farm, where he would have plenty of grass to chew on, and other sheep who knew what he meant when he said, “Baaaaah!”.

I went with my dad to leave Tommy home. My uncle met us as we pulled up in the car, and took Tommy in his arms.

“Whaddaye call it?” He asked.

“Tommy,” I replied, tears streaming down my cheeks.

“Tommy!” He repeated, incredulously. “Sure, ’tis more of a Thomasina. Ye cannae call ‘er Tommy!”

The first of my childhood dreams was shattered. Tommy had kept an important secret from me. I would never trust another sheep again. Ever. Even now, I think they’re horrible, manipulative and secretive creatures. Don’t tell your secrets to a sheep, folks. You’ll only get burned.