Dora and Duane: A Romance

I come from a place where people think nothing surprising ever happens. Not true. For instance, just last week on a typically frosty night, I drove up the treacherous gravel road, around the bend and into our driveway. As I got out of the car, I saw something massive headed toward me. Too tall for a dog, too broad for a coyote, not a cow, and--please God--not a bull, too bulky for a mountain lion, but it was running full tilt whatever it was. I looked around desperately for some way to defend myself. I had a plastic bag full of canned goods and my purse. The thing came closer.

I called, “Stop!” and then, trying for a St. Francis-like approach as it slowed a bit, “It’s OK, buddy.” Finally, the thing stood quietly before me. A very large sheep. So cold that when I put out a tentative hand to try to make friends, its wooly curls were frozen.

It pushed up against me, but not in an aggressive way.

“Hey,” I said, patting its head. “I’ll bet you’re from the farm across the road. I’ll take you back there. Because you can’t stay here.”

I started back up the driveway, and the sheep followed me docilely. Then it occurred to me that the sheep and I were going to risk our lives to go a quarter mile or so in the dark. Young men in pickup trucks were always screaming up the hill and tearing around the corner, apparently anxious to kill themselves and anyone else who happened to be in their way.

Sure enough, just as we started down the road, I heard giant tires spewing gravel and the bass line of a rap song shaking me to my core.

“Be careful,” I said to the sheep.

The pickup descended on us.

“Hey,” said a young male voice. “Whatcha got there?”

I looked at him with gratitude for not killing either me or my companion.

“A sheep,” I said, self-evidently. “I’m taking it back home to the Johnsons.”

“That ain’t their sheep,” the driver said. “That’s Duane’s sheep.”

I felt perplexed. “Duane who?”

“Don’t know his last name. He lives, like, over there.” He waved his hand vaguely.

“You sure?” I asked. “Because the Johnsons raise sheep.”

“Nope. It’s Duane’s. Good luck!” he said and sped away, trailing a line of bass notes.

I stopped walking, and so did the sheep.

“You should really go back to Duane,” I said. “If that’s where you’ve come from.”

The sheep did not respond but looked as cold and miserable as I felt.

“I’m going back to my house,” I told it. “I don’t know how to help you. Please go find Duane.”

I started back. The sheep, inevitably, followed. A certain nursery rhyme began to run through my mind. I opened the garage door and pulled the car in. The sheep knew a good thing when it saw it. Events were now officially spinning out of control. I grabbed a broom and slapped at its back end. The sheep slowly walked out into the cold night. It turned to looked at me as if I had let it down. Big time. I lowered the door.

Inside, I found my husband preparing dinner.

“You won’t believe this, but there’s a sheep in our driveway,” I said.

“Probably belongs to the Johnsons,” he said, chopping an onion.

“It doesn’t. It belongs to Duane.”

“Duane who?”

“I don’t know Duane who. But it’s very cold outside, and I’m concerned about the sheep.”

“It got here,” said Charlie. “It’ll go home when it’s hungry.”

Not an animal sentimentalist, my husband. I thought about the cold animal outside. But in the end, I had no idea how to find Duane myself.

Next morning, I looked outside and saw no sign of the sheep.

“Thank goodness,” I said to Charlie. “You were absolutely right. It knew the way home.”

“Not really,” he said. “It’s in those flowers up near the house.”

“No!” I cried. But there it was. The dead leaves and stalks of the lilies were mashed down into a nest, and the sheep was on its side, looking miserable.

An hour later, I was dressed and determined to go to town, sheep or no.

“Charlie,” I said. “You’d better come out to the garage with me because when I open that door it will try to come in.”

“What?” said Charlie. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

“Call Duane,” I suggested.

When I came home, fearing the worst, the worst was there to greet me, hauling itself up from its bed in the lilies.

I did not speak to the sheep this time, nor did I open the garage door.

Inside, I said to Charlie, “Why is that thing still here?”

“Not hungry enough yet, I guess.”

“Why didn’t you call somebody?”

“Who? The dog catcher?”

By now my feelings of charity toward both animals and husbands were dwindling. I called the county sheriff.

“I have a sheep in my lilies,” I said. “Someone told me it belongs to a person named Duane. But I don’t know who that is. And I would like the sheep to go away.”

“Huh,” said the man on the other end. “Duane Newsome, I bet. He has a pet sheep.”

I said, “Great. I’ll call him.”

“Well, if it’s Duane’s, he don’t have a phone.”

“But… how can I contact him?”

The officer thought on that. “I reckon I could drive over to his house and tell him.”

“Would you?” I said in my best grateful-customer voice.

An hour passed. Then I saw a white van pull into the driveway and a blonde-haired young woman, wearing shorts, rubber boots and a hoodie get out and open the side door.

“Come on, Dora,” she called. “Let’s get going. I’m freezing.”

Dora got to her feet and trotted toward her. She stopped at the side of the van.

“In you go,” said the woman. Dora made no further move.

“Get in!” ordered the woman, pushing Dora from the behind. But the sheep apparently couldn’t or wouldn’t get into the van.

It was a stand-off.

“Damn it, Dora,” said the woman, hugging herself and jumping up and down. “If you don’t get in, I’m leaving.”

And she got into the van and began to back out of the driveway.

“Wait!” I shouted, frantically pulling on my jacket, gloves, hat, and boots.

By the time I got outside, Dora was plodding along the drive in an apparent attempt to renegotiate with the driver. The woman stopped the van, slid open the side door, and Dora, in a show of good faith, put her front hooves on the van floor. The woman pushed from the rear, and the sheep was in. A few seconds later they were gone. I found Charlie in his shop.

 “Her name is Dora,” I told him. “And some woman came to get her.”

“The woman’s name was Dora?” he asked.

“The sheep’s! She finally got her into the van, and they drove off.”

“So, Duane wasn’t there?”

“Nope.”

“Well, how do you know that the woman was taking the sheep to Duane? She could have been sheep-napping.”

“Duane’s problem now,” I said.