There were always the sheep.
Wool, hooves, grunts, big eyes.
There were always the sheep.
There was the man and the whistle.
Shouts, commands, shrill cries of the whistle.
And there was Wilfred.
Sharp eyes, swift paws, quivering nose, rapid mind.
The sheep, the man, and Wilfred moved like the sea, in heaving, swirling throws.
But as methodical as this dance was, the sea was also unpredictable.
And somehow, beyond Wilfred's understanding, the sea evaporated.
The wool, the hooves, the grunts, the big eyes.
The man and the whistle.
All that remained was the dirt road where Wilfred was abandoned.
The season had changed, as well as the man's use for Wilfred.
After the sheep and the man and the road, there were the fields.
And the creek.
And the wood, which was a different kind of sea altogether.
It swallowed him up as the leaves changed color in the fall.
He missed the sheep, the man, and the whistle.
He missed his purpose.
Dull eyes, clumsy paws, raw nose, restless mind.
Sobbing child.
Filthy hair, skinned knees, wet cheeks.
Wilfred had found a lamb.
And his purpose.
He stayed with the child as the sea they were cast into became frigid with winter.
And eventually, there were shouts. And flashlights.
Rescue from the wood.
Praise, warm blankets, gentle hands.
But there were always the sheep at the edge of his mind, in heaving, swirling throws.
As a tool created by the man with the whistle, Wilfred suffered without his purpose.
But the man with the whistle does not suffer, because there were always new sheep and a new Wilfred to train.