What to Name the Dorpa?

My friends have just acquired a new Dorpa sheep (known as a cleanskin as they do not require shearing) from the Murrumbateman Field Days and it needs a name. The sheep is a whether (this means that it has been pruned) so it will be employed as a pet to eat the grass on their quarter acre block in a country town. So yesterday we went through various names such as Amos, Daphne Dorpa and I suggested Dick the Dorpa - no make that Dickless Dorpa I said; more suited to his "whethered" state.

While we all thought "Dickless" very amusing my suggestion was vetoed as nobody fancied - should the Dorpa escape – wandering through Bowning calling out for Dickless. Imagine "Here Dickless, Come here Dickless!" I had to agree it was a bit off-putting, but they then decided on "Victa" after the great Australian invention - the lawn mower.

This then in fact, caused me to remember a funny story about my father. It seems that when he bought his medical practice in Footscray, Victoria, it was located right next to an abattoir, and quite near a Munition’s factory. My father bought his surgery just before WWII and subsequently he had to treat quite a high number of patients from both these places of work as unfortunately both these places of employment were high risk and the accident rate reflected this. One afternoon an old sheep somehow had luckily escaped the killing fields at the local abattoir and wandered into his surgery.

Being a pragmatic person, he decided that the sheep having thwarted her fate, deserved not to die, well not on that day anyway! So he took her home to enjoy some small period of retirement, eating the grass on his suburban block. Now this was pre-me, in the1940's so you can well imagine the raised eyebrows and tooting of horns as he and his new friend progressed through the many traffic lights between Footscray and North Balwyn - his new friend proudly sitting up in the front passenger seat enjoying the passing view from that window!

The sheep progressed well, was both curious and friendly and got to the point where sometimes she entered the house to check out what was happening in the big, old kitchen. I understand that one day my mother was lighting the gas stove, bending down quite low, peering right into the oven to get the job done. Unbeknownst to her the sheep wandered in and seeing this delightfully round posterior sticking up in the air, butted her right into the oven - much noisy, unhappiness ensued - the upshot being that my father was in as much trouble as the sheep, which was then banished to the tennis courts where it could be seen to contentedly munch on the grass, and generally enjoy its peaceful existence.

Well, it was a Winter's morning not long after the stove experience; when my mother was again gazing out the kitchen window and noticed that the sheep had propped itself up against the tennis court net and indeed, was not moving. Not moving at all. It was quite rigid in fact.

A closer inspection was called for and my father's woolly friend was then pronounced dead from old age. Vale old friend.

The emphasis here of the word "old” is being placed on the age of the sheep rather than the length of their friendship! As sad as my father was about the loss of his sheep; this did not stop him from bringing home more sheep and indeed the odd goat!