Sheep to the slaughter

Sheep to the slaughter.

Farm life is very different from town life.  Some of the things which farm children take in their stride, could be seen as rather offensive to city dwellers.  For instance, ever so often we slaughtered a sheep.  This was always done by our shepherd, an elderly man by the name of Pompi.  He would cut the jugular vein and allow the sheep to bleed to death.  Without knowing it, we were a sort of Kosher and Halaal combination all rolled in to one!

After skinning the animal, which I loved helping him do, by pushing my small fist into the space between the skin and the flesh, he would slit open the gut and remove the entrails.  Attached to the wonderfully smooth textured, reddish-brown liver, was the gall bladder.  This had to be carefully removed so as not to spill any of the vile contents on to the edible offel.  He would take the gall bladder between his broken and crushed thumb and his first finger and throw it as far as he could into the veld.  My middle sister and I, who didn't have too many toys, would watch where it landed, pick it up, wash it off and proceed to have a marvelous game tossing it backwards and forwards to one another like a small ball.  What fun! 

As the days grew colder, so did our bare feet begin to feel the chill of the ground.  Because of this change in the seasons, it was perfectly logical for us to look forward to tramping in the contents of the stomach which he emptied out onto the grass.  We relished the thought of warming our feet in this hot, steamy, although extremely smelly mush.  We would squeal with delight as the yellowish-green liquid squelched through our toes.  Later that night, we would squeal to a different tune, as our mother did her best to rid us of the sour smell lingering on our feet and following us around for many days to come.  And so it goes!