Sometimes I bring the sheep back to the barn, but most days I just leave it to the expert.
He somehow manages to send the dogs half-way up a mountain and then have them bring the sheep down at a trot. The only thing that moves is his mouth.
I, on the other hand, need to trudge up to within 10 yards of the ewes before I get their attention (the dogs just tend to stroll up with me enjoying the view).
I like to think that he has an easier time of it because he can shout louder than I can.
But then again it’s probably genetically ingrained. He can count on the experience of five generations of sheep breeders.
Whereas my family tree shows that my ancestors were already living in London in the 17th century.
What hope have I got?!