The Professor’s Lesson

Just over ten years ago, a tiny slip of a Merino lamb with a distinctive overbite needed a hand.

We gave him one.

The Professor was eventually rehomed and life carried him beyond our sanctuary gates. Then recently, we learned he needed a hand once more.

He had gone down and could no longer stand. Beneath that beautiful, fine-crimped fleece, his body had become desperately slight. Now well into his senior years, he could barely eat unless we gently pushed little balls of grass into his mouth.

The outlook was grim.

Then the following day, The Professor called out when he saw us. It wasn’t much but sometimes hope doesn’t need to be. There was that tiny silver thread of not today.

And goodness, has The Professor grabbed hold of it.

And suddenly, his progress is being measured not in millimetres, but miles. And though he is by no means out of those scary woods, yesterday came the kind of sanctuary radio call we live for: “All stations, all stations. If anyone is near the western end of the barn, The Professor is doing a runner!”

No land-speed records were threatened. But The Professor was upright, unsupported and captain of his own ship.

And still teaching us a thing or two about hope.