Dear Curiosity Journal,

Yesterday, the wind blew the sheep gate down, which had been leaning unattached, awaiting a proper hinge. I’m surprised at how long it kept them in, considering Peter knew he could easily bypass the makeshift egress at his earliest convenience. His curious goat mentality clocked and calculated the opportunity in real time as I removed the latchkey wire a few days ago. On Friday morning, he led a mass exodus from the barnyard while Rufus and I took our first sips of coffee. “The sheep are out” I blurted and slammed down my mug and slipped into bibs and boots in one swift motion through the mudroom. Meanwhile, Rufus was laughing at me saying something about “Sheep Mom Activate!” When the flock saw me coming, Peter gave an authoritative snort and they all rushed back into the enclosure as if nothing happened. However, I took this mini-escapade as a not-so-subtle nudge to get them onto pasture. I need at least one more fencing session and a few more supplies to finish the newest paddock, so today I’m committing what Rufus calls “the cardinal sin of pasturing”. I’m bringing the sheep onto a paddock that hasn’t quite had enough time to bounce back from the pressures of grazing and winter. It’s only a brief afternoon field trip, a few hours on fresh grass to tide them over, a treat before the snow. The crew didn’t need much convincing, just followed the grain bucket faithfully forward until we arrived in the front pen. I reclined in the hammock, supervising their recess like a matriarchal chaperone, and reaping eudaimonic happiness from our kinship and intertwining indulgence in a spring day.