The Ambivalent Arcott

It might be strange to say, but I was raised for the slaughter. Odd right? Some dumb sheep who suddenly gained consciousness and woke up to the reality of farm life. Grazing in the same dulled field of grass, blades of green that grows and grows no matter how much we eat. Digesting pound after pound of the stuff in a daze out in the sun. Just chewing the cud in its blistering heat while we await that moment when the shepherd comes back to flock us back together. It’s a strange feeling to realize from the moment you were born you were raised to die.

Well who knows, I could be one of the lucky ones. You know those comfy sheep who get sheered seasonally. Yeah, that’s who I want to be. Sadly being born an Arcott in Canada leaves me very little options for what I want to be when I grow up. Apparently my meat is to die for…yes that joke was as bad as you think it is, but you try living this day to day grind and think of premium jokes that rattle the bones.

Optimism is hard to find in my walk of life. You don’t know how hard it is! To know every waking moment that you’ve been dealt a bad hand in life, and I don’t even know what a “bad hand” means! I can’t ask any of the other sheep because well I’m the only one of my kind. The only one halfway intelligent to think of these big questions.

Like big question number one, why are we so okay with being confined? We live in the same spot all our life and are just content with it. Is it because we never really run into predators? I suppose the luxury of staying put is nothing moves forward. Blissful existence met at the end of a knife, I suppose that is better than what most get. Shelter, constant comfort, and a sense of purpose. Is that really something to be proud of?

“I achieved the bare minimum of life!”

Let the angel sheep descend from the heaven with their golden harps and soothing bleats for salvation has arrived! Do sheep even believe in angels? Can’t say I’ve asked one. Everything I learned about from the world came from my owner’s box. Well it’s not so much a box anymore as he brought in this flatter version of it for some reason. With the flatter box though he stays in front of it longer so I guess that’s good for me. I get to spend more long nights watching and wondering what this world is all about.

That’s how I found out. There was a bunch of humans in a cooking contest where the grass was sheep, and there were fields of our legs and tender innards. Blades of cold steel cutting deep into our flesh and then watching them devour it. It was horrific. Watching the end of your existence become merely another beings one moment of fame on some box. They don’t even use all of it…they waste so much. I guess that’s why we sheep are vegetarian. If any of us saw that, oh boy, we’d be starting to question life itself!

I suppose that leads me to my next question. What does life mean? If we exist just to be killed, then what does living mean? If we don’t experience anything then what’s the point of existing? What is there to a life based on fulfilling one need of someone else? I have needs! Who’s going to fulfill those?

It's strange the customs and needs of other sheep. What’s the point of fighting other sheep? To form some sort of hierarchy born from the strongest? To have your pick of the ewes? Why does it matter if you can’t experience the other sheep? So many questions born from having the knowledge I have. This all knowing sheep prophet whose mission is to figure out all of life’s meanings for their fellow sheep. They wouldn’t care anyways.

Why did I start thinking? It almost feels like a cruel joke. I simply watch the flat box just to figure out more of this insane world. I saw some white bear drink some odd dark dirty water next to some big guy in a red suit. Is that what this so called hell looks like? If so then maybe I am better off here. Stuck in the same place, grazing next to my kin and eating blissfully until the eventual end.

If there was another sheep like me, what would they say to me? What could we talk about?

“Oh this particular type of grass was quite fine today, I give it three stars!”

“You must try out the grass on that hill over there it has some interesting new green in there. Truly if you are a connoisseur of grass that’s the place to be!”

Would we talk about the things that I have been thinking about? Would they share my views? Would that be a good thing? I think the most important quandry is…what do they think about our death?

Our grim reaper isn’t some guy in a black robe, but one in overalls and a straw hat. Patiently waiting until we mature enough to make a profit off of. Just last week I saw it happen. I saw the farmer take one of my brothers, dragging and herding him away by his hooves with that dog next to him, and I never saw him again after that. Well it has only been one week, but I highly doubt that he’s been taken out to appreciate the finer things in life. Since well…he can’t.

I guess this ability to think is both a blessing and a curse. I’m able to think about what I want, while at the same time I’ve realized the painful truth of why I’m alive. I can figure out the prime grazing spots with the best grass, but then I wonder why I’m only settling for grass. I can see the beauty of my species and fall in love, but it is never reciprocated. I can appreciate everything I have, but then I complain continuously about what I don’t.

I am never content with simply existing in this peaceful incarceration. Trapped in this cycle of simple pleasures without feeling like I’m getting anywhere. The farmer flips through the images on the box continuously when he watches it. Always changing and never staying on the same one for more than a few minutes, endlessly searching for something to rest his eyes upon. I don’t even know if he likes doing it…but he just does it. All alone in that big house of his at the dead of night without the lights on, slinking back into his comfy chair. He seems just as discontent as me, but he does nothing about it.

I’m stuck in a cycle of thoughts. Stuck in feeling bad about myself, about my life, but not appreciating that I can do something about it. Tomorrow I’m going to get slaughtered…I heard the farmer talking about it with someone else yesterday. When you realize you are going to die, it truly makes you think about everything up until now. Wondering how I have made it this far from nothing, but a babe into the rock hard stallion of an Arcott. My pelt was never the biggest or most divine, I was never the strongest, but I think it’s about time I realize something.

Complaining about this life, not cherishing what I’ve had and not realizing that I have the ability to make it better was the greatest mistake of my existence. I’m going to cheat the reaper in overalls, force him to decide on another poor soul to make profit from tomorrow. It’s saddening looking at those around me still complacent in this prison, realizing I can do nothing for them. Slumbering while I escape in the blinding twilight.

As I reach the top of the nearby hill, I can look back and see the farm off in the distance. Blanketing all who live there in a comforting moonlight as the farmer still sits in front of the box trying to find something. Tasting the last fresh patch of grass from the area, my mind leaves me with one last thought.

"Maybe someday another sheep will march my way."