Thomas

He was a big feet, big ears, nuzzling, wooly beast. Wheat Thins junkie, hug-bug, itch my cheeks, head-press you in the chest type of sheep.

Thomas can’t meet you at the Pierce College Farm Walk, poke around in your pockets for treats, or scratch his head on your hip. Hoisted, lowered, then trucked away for disposal. He can never tell you why he was ill or why he died. We can only tell you how Thomas spent the last night of his short life: alone in his pen, weak, inappetant, febrile, and struggling to breathe.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

Save his flock, and a little part of Thomas may still be around to greet you.