Got Sperm?

Got Sperm?

Here’s an interesting article from the New York Times about the offspring of sperm donors finding each other.

http://www.nytimes.com/2005/11/20/national/20siblings.html?hp&ex=1132549200&en=19a9c34b71b8af37&ei=5094&partner=homepage

So what does this have to do with life on a French farm?

Why it’s about the eternal quest for sperm.

The belier, or buck, arrived last week! So we finally have some sheep sperm roaming around. Course, he’s still young; and he has to survive until February when his equipment should be working.

I'm happy to report that he is interested in the obese Blanche and the neurotic Soixante-Douze . . .and the Husband didn’t think I’d be able to find ANYONE interested in Blanche . . .course we’ll have to provide the buck with a sexual aid (step ladder) to mount Blanche.

It’s a fact of life that when you’re looking for sperm, it’s hard to come by.
When you could care less about it, it’s abundant and flowing and it needs to be warded off like the bubonic plague. That’s why the American government spends hundreds of millions of dollars a year in its War Against Sperm (abstinence programs).

When you really need some sperm, it’s no where to be found . . .or you have to pay top dollar for it as that NY Times article details.

I can’t believe how long it has taken me to find sheep sperm here . . . Blanche is about ready to collect retirement (yes, the French social system is that generous).

This buck is not as handsome as Napoleon was. But at this point, I’m desperate and looks don’t matter. That country western song is right on the money, when it croons that the Bucks all get handsomer at closing time . . . or something like that.

I bought the buck . . . who shall remain nameless so that I don’t get attached to him . . . and three other sheep from a neighboring farmer of my American friends who live over in sheep country on the eastern side of the departement. I picked out the buck, who was an orphan, and made the mistake of letting the farmer pick out the other three young ewes.

It took the farmer two months to deliver the sheep. I was worried that he wasn’t going to bring them, and that I’d have to start searching anew for another buck . . .and Blanche would end up dying a virgin.

But lo and behold, the farmer shows up one day; backs his little camion into the field, and lets out the sheep. They were dirty, and I was a little concerned about the black midget sheep the farmer chose for me, but after my cursory glance I thought the others looked okay.

The farmer told me the sheep had NEVER been outdoors in their five months of life! I think it took them two days to figure out that they could eat the grass.

I took the farmer in to the kitchen to pay him and give him a cup of coffee. He charged me a lot more than the farmer that sold me the five beautiful perfect sheep this summer . . .but I didn’t dicker, because it’s difficult to dicker in a language you speak with the fluency of a five-year-old.

The farmer left, a large smile on his face, my check in his pocket, laughing all the way to the bank. “Stupid American,” I’m sure he was thinking.

The next morning, I went out to give the sheep their ration of grain, and I noticed that my new sheep, except for the midget, had malformed front hooves and ankles. Well, this pissed me off . . . it was obvious that the farmer, as my husband put it, unloaded all his freaks on me.

So I internally debated with myself what I should do.

I was already attached to the overly friendly dwarf, and was calling her by the name the farmer had called her, Biberon . . .which means “baby bottle” in French.

I didn’t want to send the buck back, because I desperately needed sheep sperm.

I looked at the two other ewes with their rubberbanded tails and knew what that meant, that their tails hadn’t been cut off because they were initially selected to go to the slaughterhouse . . .so I didn’t want to send them back to face certain death.

The sheep I had purchased this summer were so perfectly bred they would make a Nazi weep with pride. These misshapen creatures would have gone to the slaughterhouse if I hadn’t paid a sheep’s ransom to free them. No, I would not send them back.

I resolved to accept my freaks.

Throughout the week, the neighbors arrived to check out the new lambs. Oh they were polite, you know how the French are, not like an American who wouldn’t hesitate a second to tell you what a fool you were; but I could tell that the neighbors thought the sheep were freaks, and that there was something wrong with me for trying to build a flock based on these misfits.

“I think you need to cut their hooves,” said Steeph.

“Oh, the little black one is the buck,” said Francine. (She must have really thought I was deranged, to buy a midget buck; couldn’t she spot the large testicles dangling from the white sheep with the twisted ankles?)

“They look different from the other sheep,” said another. Steeph had told this neighbor about my sheep so she ran down to see them.

I told this neighbor that the Husband thought it was good to inject some different genes into the pool . . .when all else fails, blame the Husband . . .especially when he’s in the States.

This frosty morning, I went out to feed the new sheep, and miraculously, their feet look a lot better, much straighter. Perhaps it’s because they’re exercising now. They aren’t laying in a stable all day. Amazing what a little love and fresh air can do!

I'm a little worried about the buck's penis though . . .it always hangs out a little bit . . . even though it's minus five Celsius now. Napoleon's penis didn't hang out all the time. Leave it to me to buy a buck with a broken penis.