A Sheepful Sleepless Night

One night I was having difficulty falling asleep. Normally, I fall asleep just fine (as long as the husband’s snores are muted), but since I had taken a nap from 5pm-7pm, I obviously wasn’t very tired. But I have this weird phobia about getting less than six hours of sleep per night. So I went to bed anyways around 11:30 since I had to wake up early for work the next morning.

After a swimming a few Olympic-length laps in the bed (which created a lovely trampoline sleeping experience for my husband), I decided that the physical exercise wasn’t helping, so I moved on to mental exercise: counting sheep. I’d heard it helped.

So I started preparing for this sheep-counting extravaganza. I told my mind to set up the scene. Grass, check. Hurdle check. White? No, red like the horse hurdles near the bike path. Double-barred? Yes. So far, the setup was going good. I gave it a good lookover before bringing the sheep in. But I found something wrong.

“Crap, Mind, the side posts of the hurdle are taller than the top bar. That shouldn’t be!” I complained to my Mind.

The hurdle didn’t change.

“Dangit mind, change it!”

Mind finally changes it.

“Ok,” I direct it. “Let’s move on to the sheep. I want—”

“But what about the weather?” Mind interrupts.

“What does it matter?” I reply.

“Well, you did say you wanted to set up the scene. How can you have a weatherless outdoor scene?” Mind interrogated.

I sigh, exasperated. “Clear skies and sunny then!” Now can we move on to the sheep?”

“Yes, boss,” Mind says cheekily.

“Ok the sheep. Geesh! I can’t believe we’ve already wasted ten minutes on setting up the scene. Ok, so little sheep #1 scampers up—”

“–Little??” protested Mind. “It would be a LAMB then, not a sheep.”

“Lamp, sheep, potato, potaughto - what the hell difference does it make in this circumstance Mind?”

“Well,” Mind said. “Obviously it DOES make a difference. One form of potato that you listed is spelled completely differently than the other. And, depending on the pronunciation of each, different deductions can be made about accent, dialect, etc, like whether the speaker is British or American! Huuuge difference. Likewise, the difference between a sheep and lamb matters in this scene.”

“How?!?” I asked with the greatest annoyance.

“A sheep is heavier than a lamb and thus would have more trouble scaling the height of the hurdle,” Mind replied condescendingly.

“First of all, watch your attitude Mind. Second, I’ve been told that counting SHEEP, not lambs, is what helps you fall asleep. So I want sheep! And just give it a pole if ya need to - let’em pole vault over the hurdle!”

Mind stared at me, incredulous. “Sheep? Pole-vault? I ca–(stutter) –I can’t begin to describe the technical difficulties involved in creating that image. It’s ridiculous and impossible!”

“Fine, just let it be a normal sheep then. Just use your friggin’ imagination to give it hops like Kobe Bryant or something. After all, you ARE my imagination. Oh, and while you’re at it, please make the sheep British. I want him to say potaughto, no potato.”

“Yes boss,” Mind replied, monotone. “But if it doesn’t work out, I told you so.”

And so the first sheep runs up to the hurdle. It stops. Stops! It glances around nervously and baas,

“Whaaaaat aaaaam I supoooosed to doooo?”

“Ander has instructed me to inform you that you are to jump over this hurdle,” says Mind.

The sheep replies in an astonished tone (and, remember - with a British accent.) “What?? This hurdle in front of me? Bloody impossible! Have you seen my stumpy legs? and my round middle? A dolphin can jump higher than me, and it is legless!”

“For heaven’s sake! Just jump it!” I thunder from the sky.

The sheep abruptly cowers at my stormy voice but recovers his dignity after a few seconds, no longer scared, and gives a snobbish glance upward toward the source of my voice.

“I will attempt to jump it only if you sign a contract stating you will pay for any injuries sustained in this endeavor,” he demanded.

A shout of frustration physically rushed to my vocal chords, but I thwarted it, remembering my sleeping husband beside me. I sighed, realizing I was never going to fall asleep. I returned my attention to the sheep, and muttered menacingly under my breath,

“Just DO it or I will ERASE your existence from my mind!”

The sheep cowered again, this time devoid of any retort. He backed up a few yards, gave a little squeal of fear, and started running for the hurdle. I watched in satisfaction, eager for the lovely sleep that was to come my way from the boring scene of jumping sheep. He gained more speed and lifted off the ground, front legs tucked in, head turned to the side with squinting eyes in trepidation of possible injury. His dismount was good; I was sure he would clear the hurdle with room to spare, and then CRRRUNNNKKK! The sheep smashed shoulder first into the top bar, completely knocking the entire hurdle down and slamming to the ground like a box that was too heavy to be carried.

A few minutes passed, and the sheep looked up at the sky in self-pitiable indignation. I wanted to smash another hurdle on top of him and make him the middle of a hurdle sandwich, but I withheld my malice. As best as possible. After all, he had just taken a bad fall. I didn’t want to appear heartless.

“Alright,” I said with resignation. “You can go. I will cover any chiropractic expenses that resulted from this accident.”

The sheep thanked me profusely (although I suspected its phonyness) and walked away, limping pathetically. He headed past the patch of tree shade in which sat my smirking Mind. As I shook my head disapprovingly at Mind and began to turn the scene black, I swear I saw Mind wink at the passing sheep. I sprang to give them a piece of my mind, but it was too late - they were gone and all was black.

Those bastards.

I think I fell asleep at 3am that night. I have never tried to count sheep since.