We all have days that hit a snag and spiral fast.
It was 3pm, the sun was shining, and I was mid-shower after a productive morning when I heard the bleating.
Now, sheep bleat all the time — usually I ignore it. But this one had a tone.
And a definite splash.
Still sudsy and confused, I charged out the door — water running down my back, no clothes, no plan, and no clue what I was running toward. Just following the noise, yelling “I’m coming!” like that would somehow help.
Out by the pool was one of my girls — bobbing, flailing, and struggling in the deep end. Her fleece had soaked up the pool water like a cowboy on a Saturday night: heavy, bloated, and clinging on for dear life.
No time to think. No idea what I was doing.
And absolutely no dignity.
I jumped in.
Naked. With a sheep. In a pool.
Productivity was rapidly declining.
What followed was a slightly traumatic (for us both), totally ridiculous, and completely ungraceful rescue mission that — if seen from a distance — would’ve looked like an illegal wildlife documentary gone rogue.
Somehow, with a final grunt and a shove from behind, my poor sheep finally clambered out, composed herself, and wobbled off like nothing had happened.
Not even a nod of thanks. Not a single bleat of remorse.
Me? I bobbed there, watching streaks of lanolin float across the surface, wondering who the hell would believe me.
This is the stuff you don’t see on Instagram — the raw, unscripted chaos that usually gets told at the pub, starting with:
“You wouldn’t bloody believe what happened to me today…”
Who showers with the camera ready to capture this madness?
Google Nest Cam does. That’s who.
