The Flock's Folly

In which the sheep get fleeced.

In the rolling meadows of Shearling Vale, the sheep gathered in a woolly throng to elect a leader. The air buzzed with bleats and murmurs as two candidates stepped forward: the grizzled sheepdog, known simply as Scout, and a newcomer named Baatholomew, who claimed to be a sheep but looked suspiciously like a wolf draped in a shoddy costume of posterboard and cotton balls glued haphazardly in a crude attempt to resemble wool.

The debate was held in the center of the pasture, under the shade of an old oak. Scout stood tall, his bark steady but his eyes wary. Baatholomew, meanwhile, shuffled awkwardly, his cardboard disguise creaking with every step. The sheep, though, were too busy grazing or gossiping to notice the cotton balls peeling off his frame.

The first question came from a fluffy ewe named Fleecity. “Scout, why do you bark at us so fiercely? It scares us, and we don’t like it one bit!”

Scout’s ears twitched, but he kept his tone calm. “I bark to keep you safe. When you stray toward the cliffs or the briars, I guide you back. Your safety is my concern. Danger’s always lurking.”

The sheep murmured, unimpressed. “He’s so gruff,” whispered little Lambert to his mother. “Why can’t he be nicer?” The flock nodded, their woolly heads bobbing in agreement.

Then it was Baatholomew’s turn. He cleared his throat with a low, rumbling growl, “Friends,” he said, his voice syrupy, “I believe in kindness. No barking, no scolding. I’ll treat you all as equals. And I certainly won’t forbid you from exploring, say, the lovely cave up the hill.” He gestured toward a shadowy cavern, its entrance littered with suspicious bones.

The sheep cooed, enchanted. “He’s so polite!” said an old ram named Wooliam. “And he trusts us to roam free!”

Scout’s hackles rose. He could smell the wolf beneath the glue and cardboard, and his instincts screamed danger. As the debate wore on, Baatholomew’s promises grew sweeter—free grazing, no rules, endless clover—while Scout’s honest warnings about predators and storms were met with eye-rolls. “He’s so negative,” muttered Ramona.

Finally, Scout could take no more. During the final round, he stepped forward, his voice booming across the meadow. “Listen, all of you! Baatholomew isn’t a sheep! He’s a wolf in a crude disguise! Just look at him! That’s posterboard, and those cotton balls are falling off! He only wants you to go to that cave so he can devour you! I’ll protect you from him!”

The flock gasped. Baatholomew’s yellow eyes widened, and his disguise slipping from his frame. He stammered, “I… I’m offended! My crafting skills may not be perfect, but to call me a wolf? That’s uncalled for!”

The sheep turned on Scout, their bleats rising in outrage. “How dare you criticize his art!” cried Wooliam. “Baatholomew’s kind and decent, not like you, always barking and judging!” Fleecity added, “Maybe his costume’s homemade, but that’s no reason to be cruel!”

Scout stood stunned, his tail drooping. Baatholomew smirked, adjusting a loose cotton ball. The vote was called.

Baatholomew won in a landslide.

Saliva dripped from his fangs as he announced, “Party at my place!” The bleated cheers followed the victor up the hill.

Scout watched with a paw held over his heart. “Democracy isn’t perfect,” he said, “but it’s better than the alternative, I guess.”