#it really does LOOK like it was written at 4am and edited at 5am which is super funny because actually it was

[oldhector]

a big sad drabble!

word count: 3378 content: it’s amazing what one can find in london’s museums, but the surprises aren’t always pleasant ones. an esteemed author is forced to remember a time he’d almost forgotten, many years ago.

Matthew Purcell was an English professor in Washington DC. He’d just published a suddenly successful paper on language in poetry, creating ripples in the literature circles just as the turn of the century was taking place. Innovations in all fields were taking place, and the 19th century promised to be a good one. In both human ingenuity, and his own disposition. Matthew finally felt like he was doing something worthwhile again.

Matthew’s paper, however, didn’t fit into the grand innovations category as far as he was concerned. It was formatted to excellence and painstakingly written, but fairly empty, in his opinion. It really wasn’t particularly profound, simply citing other authors making valid points on the subject, and furthering (or questioning) their discussions. His central argument was how language and the proper use of it could make or break an aspiring author (in any profession), and that sometimes the content didn’t even matter. Perhaps the fact that it had done so well was an experiment in itself.  How amusing. 

Nevertheless, he was contacted by several universities in England to come and give a talk on it. Who was he to refuse an expenses paid holiday? Matthew was due for a change of character anyway, his colleagues and friends had started to notice that he really wasn’t ageing. He’d do these talks, then die in a traffic accident, bribe a morgue owner, and start afresh somewhere new. It was a shame, he’d loved the writing. Maybe he could continue under a new alias and put his paper’s idea to the test. Could he go back to being Hector yet? He didn’t mind new names, but he preferred keeping his original, given name. It felt more like he was still himself that way.

The journey was as enjoyable as it could have been, given the cooler time of year, and he spent three days on arrival sleeping. He’d lost his sea legs, it seemed. On the third day, after a sound breakfast, Matthew decided to take a stroll down to the museum. It wasn’t four blocks away, and the weather was fine. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Birds sung as they always had, the clouds hurried by as they always had.

Matthew always liked to visit the ancient Greek section first. He’d do the exhibits in chronological order if he could, and take time looking at the bits and pieces from everyday life that modern historians found interesting. There would always be something new to appreciate about things he’d taken for granted when they were contemporary. While he enjoyed that aspect of it, looking at remnants of the past often brought memories back. Sometimes they’d flicker behind his eyes and be gone in an instant, he’d need only blink to forget the face of the dying friend once relying on a helmet like the one behind glass. Other times he’d see a toy and imagine that he’d given something similar to a daughter of his at some point in time. He’d imagine the face of someone who looked too specific to have been made up, but the names escaped him. People and scenes would appear in a mist that dissipated if he focused on it. Any memory recall stronger than that would create an ache he could only wait out.

However much he liked them, museums gave him a headache more often than not, but he knew it was important to remember the past. To remember who he’d been in the lifetimes before. He hadn’t always had the wealth he had now, nor the opportunities. It was important to stay humble. That much, he had learnt the hard way. And people really were wonderful, weren’t they? Idolising simple objects from the past as something glorious simply because it had survived through the years. Matthew should have felt proud to stand on the other side of the glass, despite very much deserving being encased.

Pottery. Beads. Rusted sword fragments. Statuettes. Funerary offerings, which still felt a little dirty to have been removed. Matthew tried to distance himself from his old religion once again because it haunted him with a little worry, a little voice saying that Hades would be pissed. It had been nearly two-thousand years since he’d worshipped those gods, after all. But he passed with polite interest. Occasionally his brow would draw closer as another flash of memory showed its face, but he tried to stay relaxed. It wasn’t unpleasant to remember.

That was when he noticed it, out of the corner of his eye. Maybe Matthew had been searching for it all along, and subconsciously inspected every funerary monument in the hopes that he’d see the one he’d lost. This one was the lowest on display - metal rods gripped the marble and held it in place right at the bottom. No glass sheltered this one. The marble had worn a little around the edges, but the faces looked remarkable given the stele’s age. Matthew had been wrong before -- found himself almost convinced that he was looking at the funerary monument that he’d made for his family after their death, but... this was something else. Matthew crumbled to his knees, stinging eyes taking in as many details as they could. He tried to remember what he’d had made all those years ago, but it was still hazy. Three men and a woman occupied the allotted space. All adults. One of the men had his arm wrapped around the woman, another stood behind her, and the last on her left.

And just like that, Matthew wasn’t Matthew anymore, he was Hector. He wasn’t some American author, but a man with more stitches than substance on that old heart of his. A man who couldn’t die, cursed with longevity. If only his life had been as simple as the story cooked up this time around. If only he’d spent his 45 years with his nose in the books, a widower with no children to show for the marriage. Alas, this wasn’t the case. He felt all his years accumulate in a fist that punched him in the gut. This funerary stele was too familiar. The suit felt tight on his thighs, tight on his shoulders and back, it felt strange all of a sudden. Constricting. Untrue to himself. He wanted his bow and arrow, he wanted his tunic and his robes. 

Desperate eyes read a faded, and fragmentary in parts inscription. As he read, he made sense of the missing letters. The Greek translated instantly without a moment’s falter. This was his family’s monument. It had been recovered. The words read in full:

TO STRONG DIOKLES, KIND MATEO, BRAVE SONS TO HECTOR OF SPARTA, YOU LIGHT THE WAY THOUGH YOU ARE GONE.

Thank the gods that he was by himself in this gallery, not that Hector was in the least aware of his surroundings, but he was crying. The building could be falling to pieces and he’d still be stuck in this void. Breathlessness. Amazement. Sorrow. Pure, untainted grief. His body felt heavy and slow. He couldn’t recall the last time he felt such strong emotion. It was awful, but humanising. Hector felt real. He was flooded by memories of the loved ones he’d lost long ago, and flashes of memory were brought to his mind in such fresh, quick succession that they might have died two years ago, not two thousand. The rest of the inscription came to mind, but he had to pause before he could finish it. His chest might split if he didn’t. So he bowed his head, scrunching his eyes shut. Was he happy that he’d found it, or grieved to remember? When he could, he read on:

TO ACHELOIS. MY LOVE, I WILL MISS YOU FOR ETERNITY.

Hector couldn’t take it anymore. Though his hand clasped firmly across his mouth, strangled sobs still echoed in the lonely gallery. He tried to contain himself. He tried to recover, but the longer he stared -- and he couldn’t look away -- the quicker tears sprung to his eyes. Within moments, he was sobbing. His throat closed up, trying to weep a little quieter, but anyone would be able to hear him now. He didn’t care. He reached out with his free hand to brush shaking fingers across the words, the faces. He wouldn’t touch any old monument, but this was HIS property. HIS, by RIGHT. God, he couldn’t believe that he was able to touch it again.

His hands guided the way from words to the figures. He’d almost been afraid to look at them too closely lest the memories take him away. He couldn’t see. He brushed the tears away roughly but more poured. Hector pulled the collar of his jacket up to press into his face and he took a moment to breathe. Unsurprisingly, the peace wasn’t strong enough to withstand setting eyes on his grave marker again. He’d included himself, he remembered vividly thinking, because the true Hector of Sparta died with his immediate family. The man who lived beyond that was a ghost.

Attention drew to man at the right of the funerary stele. He was only fractionally shorter than the other men, with a ground-touching cloak wrapped around his person. He held a staff, or was it a spear, with the top so badly scratched that he couldn’t tell? His expression was softer, with short curly hair and a short curly beard. Mateo. He used to talk about how incredible politics were in Athens, even though he was Spartan. He never believed in the Spartan way, and though Hector wasn’t present for it, Mateo had apparently kicked up a fuss at being called to fight against Athens in the war. Hector lived with Mateo until he too died, but he was older then. They’d talk for hours about the heaviest subjects, never fearing to offend the other because every argument could be talked through. True intellectual equals, but Hector would always say that Mateo was cleverer than his father. He’d made him so proud.

The man who stood in the back was the tallest. Diokles, the first-born son. He wore armour, standing proudly and protectively over his family. Diokles had been such a good child, the most obedient and strong son anyone could ask for. The man calling himself Matthew could remember a scene in a soul-encasing memory. He’d walked into his house to find his mother telling Diokles false accounts. He couldn’t remember the details, but Gaia was trying to paint the image of Diokles’ doting father as some kind of violent killer. Whatever had been said, Diokles looked terrified when Hector returned. Infuriated, he had packed her things and sent her away. He’d kicked his own mother out of the house. Not before, if he could remember correctly, she’d smacked him across the face. But she’d done it outside, away from view. It didn’t matter. When he got back inside, Diokles was practically cowering. He had to be coaxed from the corner, like some kind of frightened kitten. Was he really so threatening? 

Diokles was never scared after that. Hector never struck his family, and barely ever raised his voice. Certainly not in the way Gaia had been suggesting - cruel woman! Had she believed that Spartan boys ought to fear their fathers? Yes... thinking about it, that would make sense to her. The memory ended with his son kissing his cheek. Hector was a killer, but the world was different then. Still swept away in himself, he reached shaking fingers out to stroke the marble carved into his son’s face. Cold, unmoving. Hector had almost been expecting soft warmth. Diokles was fair, and trustworthy. Hector wasn’t able to get to know him much as an adult as he had died fairly young, but he was level-headed in the most necessary of times. The memory subsided, and before he could picture the colour of his son’s eyes, they were lost once again to history.

The woman was smaller than the others, and the sharp angle of her diamond chin was perfectly shown in her front-facing angle. Her stare was regal and controlling, and to coin a phrase not yet known in the Greek world at this time, she was truly the mater familias. She ran the household. She gave the orders. Better suited to be a queen than a mercenary’s wife, Achelois was intelligent as Athene, sneaky as Hera, and far more beautiful than Aphrodite herself. Her curly hair fell to her shoulders, partially tied up at the back, with a band around her forehead. She had a sharp nose, perfectly distanced eyes, and a joke always on her lips. Her draping dress was clasped at both collar-bones, though Hector tended to prefer to on the floor. She still looked beautiful, if lifeless now. Of course she was lifeless now. 

Seeing her face again just about broke his heart. His hands dropped to his lap. Tears stole his vision. Hector couldn’t help the loud sobs now, lungs gasping for air. He longed for something that they’d touched, for them to feel close again. He wrapped his arms around his middle. 

They’d all held him. 

Diokles had been a boy, it was before Hector had come into contact with what turned him immortal. This was the last time he’d hugged his father, before Hector left to fight in the war. He’d been just a man and his son, bidding each other farewell. When they met as adults, Diokles never believed that Hector was his father. He was too young to be, so he’d said. There was no convincing him. Though it made his chest ache, Hector had always been impressed at his unwavering loyalty. How sad that he’d never been able to hold his first born child again. They never even got to say goodbye. Did Diokles know how much he was loved?

Achelois had wrapped her arms around him first when they were children; she was his first true friend. She’d always been a firm believer in hugs -- but she’d never hold the other boys close. It was always Hector, even when he wasn’t there. Hector had been so lucky to have known such a woman. He cried ever harder at the thought of her death. She was so old, and tired, and she’d told him not to weep. But he had been. He couldn’t help it. The world had never quite looked the same since she died. How he’d prayed that he could die with her! How he’d cursed the gods!

Mateo had been there for Hector after Achelois died. He’d welcomed him into his house at first not quite believing it, but he eventually came round. It would have been wretched if Mateo had abandoned him too. But he hadn’t. In fact, Mateo let Hector live with him until he was nothing more than ashes himself. How he’d loved his boys and his best friend. It was difficult to feel grateful to have known them when faced with the tragedy of out-living them.

It was only a matter of time until someone found him. Footsteps. Hector untangled from around himself and pressed one hand against the floor. He was trying to stand, but no muscle in his body would cooperate. Voices. It was a man’s -- deep and unsettling -- in his ear as he felt himself hoisted up off the ground. Hector had almost been calm now, save for the face drenched in sorrow, but the touch startled him. He tore himself free once he found his footing and put distance between them. He heard himself shouting, but couldn’t tell what he was saying. Was he even speaking English? It was like the present was a distant memory that he couldn’t quite locate.

Another pair of hands gripped his right bicep, and the first man lunged forward to take his left arm. Voices were muffled. He could feel his throat tense and strain as if he was screaming. Maybe he was.

Suddenly, a man started speaking in Greek. Hector’s painful eyes scanned for where it was coming from, and for a second, he thought he saw Mateo standing nearby. A man of average build with a cloak around his shoulders, short hair, and a beard, was asking him what was wrong. In Greek. The vision of Mateo faded, and the hair atop this man’s head faded too. He was much older than Mateo ever was, but he looked kind and fair. He motioned to an open door. Hector’s throat relaxed. He hung his head, dragging his feet behind him. Exhausted.

They took him to one of the offices attached to the classics division. Brandy was poured, a cigarette was lit, and a doctor was called. Hector could only sit stock still on the sofa with a shawl around his shoulders. The old man continued speaking Greek to him, but as Hector came round, he finally was able to tell him that English was fine too. Preferable, even.

“Please cancel the doctor, sir,” Hector pleaded once he’d finished his drink. “I’m-- I’m alright. I just received some news that took me by surprise.”

“Whatever could it have been, my boy, to put you in such a state?” He replied gruffly. “And the Greek? You sound American to me. Are you quite well?”

“Greek-- it’s my first language, but I studied in America. I, uh...” he sat back in his seat. This had drained him, he wanted to sleep for another few days. Letting the shawl slip from his shoulders, he raised his hands to rub down his face. God, his eyes ached. “My family-- they’re dead. Please don’t have me explain, I don’t trust that I won’t return to my hysteria.”

The professor nodded, but Hector had his hands over his eyes at the time and missed it. “The doctor shall come. A respectable man doesn’t lose himself like that in public, even in the face of loss. Stiff upper lip.”

Hector’s hands lifted from his face only to send a venomous glare to his company. What a ridiculous thing to say. Imagine if he had recently been bereaved; his whole family stolen from him in one fateful morning. If that had been the case, Hector didn’t count on being able to control his anger. But as it was, he knew there was distance between him and his loss. This loss, anyway. The professor had more of a point than he realised. So his fury dissipated and he let out a sigh, pushing himself off the couch and onto his feet.

“Thank you for your hospitality.” Hector let the old soldier in him take over. He stood tall, chin high, with a voice as strong (if croaky) as any. “I’ll shoulder any embarrassment this may have caused you, and donate accordingly. I let my emotions get the better of me, and I sincerely apologise.”

The professor insisted that he stay at least for the doctor, so out of respect, Hector did. The doctor didn’t have anything revolutionary to say when he did finally arrive. Simply ordered an early night and asked if he’d had a stiff drink yet. He had, so the doctor was satisfied. 

Hector left as soon as he could. He was glad for the old man’s kindness, but also his bluntness. Had he not been curt, Hector might still be stuck in his head. But now, as overwhelmed by pain as he still felt, he knew he could make it back to his hotel without a scene. Sturdy as he seemed now, he still couldn’t bring himself to pass through the gallery again. He felt nauseous, hollow. Alone. His jacket couldn’t protect him against the bleak cold he now felt, but the warmth he longed for was Achelois’ smile. Nothing else would do.

He met the men who had helped him earlier, and shook their hands. It felt easier than letting awkwardness fester between them. These three gentlemen were much kinder than they had any need to be, as was his opinion of them. Perhaps things were different in actuality, but Hector was grasping at every single good thing that came his way in order to regain just an ounce of his former mood. Truthfully, he felt like he’d just been shattered.

[drferox]

20 Questions with Dr Ferox #8

My gosh, there’s just so much stuff you vetlings want to know, isn’t there? Well, knowledge is good, so here we go with yet another info dump as I try to answer a big slew of your questions in one hit.

Anonymous said: I sometimes get your patreon emails or an update on your blog while I'm studying/struggling in the wee-hours of the morning (vetmed). I'm in WA, so where-ever you are it's also late/early. What are you doing up in the witching hours?

First of all, I am an AdultTM and as such I am permitted to set by own Bed Time. There are many reasons why you might receive notifications from me so ‘early’.

I have a blog post on queue every morning between 5am and 6am my time (so probably 3am and 4am your time). It goes up automatically, so I can see initial responses before I go to work.

I think Patreon sends its emails at the same time each day, regardless of when I post. I certainly don’t type there early in the morning.

Sometimes I’m on nightshift and can get kinda bored at 3am sometimes.

Sometimes I just can’t sleep, especially with the changing day/night cycles.

Most of the blog runs on queue, honestly. At least three posts a day do.

@banesidhe said: Just happened to discover your blog. Thank you so much for posting like you do (even the snark. I'm a 911 dispatcher, I appreciate the snark ;) ), and sharing your experiences. No vet question, but if you could only ever re/read five books for the rest of your life, which five titles would make your cut?

Ah, I have found many similar people to myself among emergency personnel. There’s a particular combination of gallows humor and wishing people would get to the point that unites us.

For fiction books:

Feral, Kerry Greenwood

The Shepherd’s Crown, Terry Pratchett

Monstrous Regiment, Terry Pratchett

Watership Down, Richard Adam

Good Omens, Terry Pratchett & Neil Gaiman

Hmm, bit of a trend there.

But the work books I couldn’t live without are:

Plumb’s Veterinary Drug Handbook

The 5 minute veterinary consult, Dog and Cat Edition

Ettinger’s Textbook of Internal Medicine, Expert Consult

BSAVA Rabbit Medicine & Surgery Handbook

Small Animal Surgery, Fossum.

Anonymous asked: what was the most exotic/rare patient youve ever had?

This fat meerkat.

Anonymous said: My dog is a shelter dog and we suspect she was abused before we got her (afraid of E V E R Y T H I N G) and weve been slowly working on getting her to at least ignore people we walk past or that enter the house and thats been making progress. But she hates the vet. Hates it. Gets in my lap and refuses to leave. New dogs people and smells. So her normal vet takes the approach of having one of us hold/console her while they do all the poking and listening and whatnot and muzzling her if they need to and just getting it done as quickly as possible. But this last time she saw a new vet and this vet took the approach of hand-feeding her almost an entire bag of treats and called it "stress-eating" and tbh you should have seen the look on my dogs face. She was so weirded out. Shes highly food motivated so it was like heaven to her but she was simultaneously very suspicious. Her face was like"i love this but idk if i trust it" it was great.Have a greatday!

If you an reinforce the behaviour by arranging frequent, short visits to the vet clinic where nothing happens but lots of treats, she may start to associate the vet clinic with positive things (food) ad no scary things. This might make the rest ofher life easier.

Anonymous said: I own fancy rats and just want to put out there to people, that while they are THE MOST amazing tiny friends, in my experience most vets are completely lost when it comes to their care & several I've seen refused to even touch my exceptionally friendly females. They often get respiratory infections requiring antibiotics. One of my friend's females passed away bc nobody would perform a simple surgery on her. So please be cautious when buying them. 

I would like to suggest that any surgery on a rat is likely to be not simple, because they do have particular anesthetic requirements that can make their recovery difficult. Also that a lot of traditional rat medicine hinges on using post mortem examination as a diagnostic tool, which is not useful at all with pet rats.

In dog and cat medicine most of our equipment and even medications are not suitable for rats, or very difficult to adapt. We simply have fewer options, and generally less experience with these species Most vets I know will attempt to treat them, but with a great big disclaimer saying I don’t do this often, and a quick question as to whether you’d prefer to go to a nearby clinic that does see rats more often.

Anonymous said: Hello, I recently took in 3 abandoned kittens and they're covered in fleas. They appear to be 6 weeks old and can't use meds or wash for them. I clean them with vinegar and dish soap and I was wondering if you knew of any other ways to help them since they hate getting wet. I also use a comb but they dislike that as well.

You can use capstar on kittens from 4 weeks of age, and Revolution from 6, probably earlier. Talk to your vet.

Anonymous asked: Strange question but do you know if that rage syndrome thing can happen in cats also? I know a cat who does that and also acts strangely in general at the same time?

It is not documented in cats, however Feline Hyperesthesia Syndrome may present in a similar way.

Anonymous said: Hey doc! I plan on getting my cat fixed soon and I'm worried about how it'll affect her. She's really skittish and prefers to stay in one room, could getting her fixed make it worse?? I guess like what are the possible behavioral effects is what I'm askin? For the qt: ive been here a while i just dont like or reblog stuff but i came for the vet knowledge and stayed for it too, especially the mythical creatures and dog breed info

She is probably not going to have any long term personality changes from being desexed, though might be out of sorts for a few days after the anaesthetic. If anything they tend to be less stressed because they’re not attracting Toms.

Another Anonymous said: My kitten was neutered yesterday and he's doing great, healing well, playing nonstop, remarkably agile despite the e-collar (navigating small spaces, jumping to high places), eating & drinking well. The vet didn't give us any aftercare instructions but I googled it -- and wish I'd done so before the surgery because I could've prepared better. A lot of it seemed obvious in hindsight but nothing I'd have thought of on my own. Do you have a flier or anything for your patients' humans? 

We send our patients home with aftercare instructions. We have a default one that we print for routine surgery like desexing, and a customized one for non-routine procedures.

We also read it out to our clients when they pick up their pet, and point out that all these instructions are written down, because it’s easy to forget details when you’re worried.

Anonymous asked: I have a question! I saw your desexing cats post and thought I might send it to you. I neutered my male cat but he still sprays and tries to roam the neighborhood. I try to keep him inside best I can. Is there a reason this happens?

It may be stress, but you should consult your vet to rule out any underlying urinary tract issue before assuming so. Your vet should be able to discus the various stress reducing techniques, changes and treatments that are available.

Anonymous asked: Whenever my roommate wakes up before me, she makes bacon for breakfast while the coffee is brewing. If she hasn't slept well, her coherence is sometimes a bit... lacking. If our cat happens to demand food, about half the time she ends up giving him a slice of bacon instead of cat food. We only recently figured out that she's been doing this. He's not getting fat, and gets actual cat food later, so is this OK, or do we need to try to figure out how to keep this from happening?

While bacon is certainly digestible, it is not a balanced diet. It would be ideal if you could minimize his bacon habit.

@nowgovanish said: Hello! I have a question about my 13 and 4 year old cats. They seem to have some pretty bad skin reactions to certain foods, and I've tried a lot of different food brands that my vet reccommended. The one that seems to work best is a grain free/ non chicken variant, but I see that you aren't a huge fan of grain free. Is there anything I should change or try sticking with what works?

I have said many times before that if it’s working, keep feeding it.

Novel protein diets, and ideally single proteins source diets, are more use for allergies than just going ‘grain free’.

‘Grain Free’ labelling on food particularly vexes me because it’s not regulated. You can find ‘grain free’ food that really mean ‘corn free’ and either use grain byproducts or straight up use rice. Last time I checked, rice was a grain.

It’s like ‘Hollistic’ - it means nothing on a pet food label. Neither does ‘Organic’, pet food companies do not have to use all organic products in pet food to label the food as organic. These are marketing ploys like ‘all natural’ which are targeting your emotions and don’t mean anything when it comes to the food.

If you’ve come across a novel protein diet, or a minimum ingredient diet, that is beneficial for your cats then stick with it. But recognise what’s marketing and what’s useful.

Anonymous said: I love my dog but he is a complete and total moron. He has strangled himself so often that his bark is now raspy. He even found a way to do it with a harness! We've resorted to jogging when walking him to try and keep up but is there some way to make it better? We've tried letting him learn on his own, pausing when he pulls, and getting a longer leash. If he was much smarter I'd accuse him of being into asphyxiation.

I would suggest that you potentially need to figure out what motivates your dog most. Consider using positive reinforcement to encourage him to heel on the lead, instead of wandering and pulling.

You might also want to consider something like a halti collar, which pulls the dog’s nose downwards to their chest when they pull, instead of something that goes around the neck.

Anonymous: Would you consider it a good generalization that dogs more closely resembling/related to wolves (like huskies) have less health problems? I am aware that no dogs are completely lacking in health problems.  Tax: came for good hard factual analysis.

No. And here’s the thing- all modern dog breeds are equally distant from their wolf-like ancestor, unless they have been recently mixed with wolves again.

Their health problems are different to those dogs with more extreme anatomy, but dogs that look like wolves are not inherently healthier.

@justslowdown said: a book i have discusses the man who created the GSD breed (aka isolated traits from a diverse population) pairing dogs with their daughters, granddaughters, great-granddaughters and onwards til more than 1/2 of the pups had to be culled. due you think this could be partially responsible for the health issues remaining more than a century later? "Very drastic inbreeding was espoused during the formation of the breed [...] to quickly form specific type" - The German Shepherd Dog by Ernest H Hart

Certainly.

This is called line breeding, where the offspring of a ‘perfect’ individual are repeatedly bred back to the same individual generation upon generation to try to recreate it. All you really do is lose genetic diversity very quickly and allow recessive deleterious genes to proliferate in the population.

This is why just about everywhere else that’s not the purebred pet world, this is considered a bad thing to do.

@eyestumblin said: Do you think horses would look significantly different if their wonky anatomy were more logical?

They would no longer be a horse.

@cirque-du-spoon said: I saw you mention sheep on the horse thread and I spent a fair bit of time on a sheep farm in Wales. The head shepherd once told me "sheep are born, they spend the rest of their life trying to die". Then he opened his landrover door, and the passenger footwell was maybe 6 lambs snuggled up to one of his old motherly collies.

The common phrase down here was “The aim in life of a Merino ewe is to die and take fifty of her friends with her.” It’s not really much of an exaggeration.

Anonymous said: I'm intrigued to hear the faults of sheep, lay it on me!

Oh I will. It’s on my list for a big write up.

@queenalia said: Hi! I love the post about why horses make no sense, and I was wondering if you would do a similar one for sheep (one of the most suicidal animals on earth in my opinion)?

It will definitely be done sometime in the next few weeks. As you understand, it’s not  quick answer.

@vulturegeorge said: Hey Dr.F, after reeding your "horses-are-spindily-legged-disasters" post and your comment about how sheep are worse, I was wondering if you wished to elaborate? I am currently working on a heard of 50 random sheep my uni bought with a ton of lung issues ... so it'd be super interesting to me. Question tax: came for the Lucifer story, stayed for all of your amazing advice & opinions. I hope you are finding balance between vetting and living. cheers!

I promise I will elaborate. I can’t leave a cliff hanger like that and not explain... eventually.