ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
A formal weather alert from the Bureau of Meteorology (BoM) has once again prompted swift and decisive inaction from a sheep grazier just west of our cosmopolitan inland port city this afternoon.
After receiving a Sheep Grazier’s Warning at approximately 4.48pm, local primary producer Dave Skuthorpe loaded himself into the Hilux, chucked it into second, and rattled his way out to check on 240 freshly-shorn wethers standing about like stunned mullets in the oat/noxious weed paddock.
With cold air moving in from the Bight and a possible wind chill forecast, the BoM advised graziers to consider sheltering vulnerable stock. This triggered the standard rural protocol of muttering, face rubbing, frowning, and lighting a filterless Champion Ruby while staring at animals that have seen it all before.
Upon arrival, Skuthorpe rolled down the window, eyeballed the flock for a good minute and delivered his full risk assessment.
“Fuck it,” he said. “You’ll be right won’t ya. Ya fucken things.”
The sheep reportedly stood motionless in response, some chewing oats, others blinking slowly, as if to agree that shelter was for times worse than these.
Speaking to The Advocate later that evening, Skuthorpe explained his decision.
“Mate if I chased ’em into the yards every time the weather looked a bit cool, they’d spend more time inside than me. They’ve got a few hills to tuck behind. If they’ve got half a brain between ’em, they’ll figure it out.”
When asked if he might lose a few to exposure, Skuthorpe shrugged.
“Nup, she’ll be right.” he said.
Skuthorpe let out the last of his smoke, muttered, rubbed his face and frown. The chill in the wind had him thinking deeply.
“Nah, fuck it. I’ll put them down in the creek. I’ll have to fix that flood fence though but it’s 4pm. Fuck’s sake. I’ll have to home, come back on the bike with a dog and spool of plain wire. Fuck me, it never fucken ends.”
More to come.
