Fleeced!

The sheep were getting nervous. It was almost time for their annual shearing, and the thought of humans armed with razors made them quake in their pens.

It was especially hard for the younger ones. They had no experience with having their coat ripped from them, and the thought filled them with dread.

The day arrived. Trucks pulled up to the farm, and all the sheep were herded into the back.

One little ewe was especially nervous. “Where are we going? What are they going to do to us?” she bleated.

“Don’t worry,” said a friend. “An older sheep told me this happens every year. They may take us down the road to a big farm and herd us into a pen. But when the time comes, they won’t take you or me.”

“Why?” said the little one.

“Because we’re black sheep. No one wants our wool. Our coat isn’t as versatile as white sheep’s wool, which can be dyed all sorts of colors. They may put us all together now, but we’ll never get the razor treatment!”

Thus reassured, the little one began to relax.

Sure enough, when they arrived at the farm, the sheep were corralled into a big holding pen. One by one, each white sheep was led to the shearers. And each returned -- shivering, buzzcut and unhappy.

Then an odd thing happened. The remaining two black sheep were taken to the shearers, and in a violent 20 seconds, ZZZZZZZIPPPP, each was ripped of her fleece!

The little one was despondent. “This wasn’t supposed to happen!” she cried. “They don’t even like black sheep! They don’t use our wool! Why would they do this?”

Ruefully, her ovine friend turned to her and said, “Aw, honey,
Lambs like us – maybe we were shorn for fun.”