Back during the hippy segment of my life, when I returned to the land to grow my own food, I was also taken up with a passion for weaving and spinning my own yarn. I decided that in order to do it right, I needed a few sheep and angora goats of my own so that I would have plenty of wool and mohair fleeces with which I could produce fabulous pillows, ponchos, tote bags, and whatever else I thought would sell successfully at the statewide craft shows where I often set up shop.

In preparation for the arrival of my small flock, I called in a neighbor who had a posthole digger on his tractor. He dug holes for the unfenced five acre field next to the barn, and where I would be able to watch my sheep and goats from my kitchen window. Bill and I filled each hole with a strong wooden post, then filled in around each one with the dirt that had been removed. We did the work on weekends and during long, Vermont summer evenings. We were always covered with mud, and when we finished up the work each day, we fell into bed and were fast asleep before we could say goodnight.

The neighbor came back when we were finished and stretched the wire fence all around the perimeter of the field, while Bill and I stapled it in place.  Always tired and sweaty, I labored on with excitement over the arrival of my flock. Bill, on the other hand, wasn’t so excited. He loved me and labored on to make me happy.

A few weeks later, Mary, my first angora goat arrived, along with three Romney ewes and a ram. I knew before hand that the  fibers in both the goat and sheep fleeces were long stapled, strong, and would be heavenly to work with.

A few days after her arrival, I discovered that Mary, like all critters, including humans, had a personality of her own. She quickly made her preference known for what grew outside of her enclosed pasture.

One morning, as I was weeding my vegetable garden, I heard her bleating and voicing displeasure, letting me know something was amiss. When I went around the corner of the barn, I saw that her head was caught in the fence. Woven of heavy duty wire, the fence was made up of small rectangular holes, about 3” x 5,” near the bottom. On each tier above the bottom one, the holes got larger. Mary had been able to get her head, horns and all, through one of the largest holes so she could reach the irresistible greenery on the other side of the fence.

Down into the field I went to get her out. When I grabbed her horns and tried to guide them out of the hole, she struggled, moving her head up, down and sideways. After five minutes of me cursing and her bleating, I figured out that there was no way I was going to be able to get her out … unless … I cut the wire between the hole she was stuck in and the one next to it. After I cut the wire and got her unstuck, I tried to find the difference between the grass and weeds on both sides of the fence but saw none. For a while, Mary happily ate what was in her own pasture, but still was occasionally tempted by some tasty morsel on the other side of the fence.

At least once every few weeks, I’d be called to the pasture by her persistent bleating, to get her untangled. She, of course, would never use the same hole I’d enlarged before. As I cut more and more wire to get her out, my displeasure grew, not to mention Bill’s. He saw dollar signs every time we had to cut the fence.

Over time as I spun Mary’s fleece into beautiful yarns I colored with natural dyes, I decided I wanted access to more mohair and decided to breed her to a friend’s buck. When tiny Tiffany was born, I was thrilled by her even finer, silky hair. I wanted to breed Mary again. I kept wanting more and more mohair!

Months later, when we visited a friend’s newly renovated home, I had a major attack of kitchen envy. I wanted to go home and demolish my kitchen and start over. For days I dreamt about nothing else, until Mary got her head caught in the fence once again. As I cursed her, I had to ask, “Wasn’t it my envy of a friend’s flock of sheep that got me started on this path?”

I try not to go looking for greener pastures anymore. The grass is greenest right under my own two feet. If envy does creep into my life, I remind myself that wanting what’s on the other side of the fence isn’t always a good thing for me. I never know what I’ll find out there and when I’ve finish whatever it was I thought would be so delicious, I may have to cut my way out of what I spent my precious time and money on.

Have you, like me, every suffered from greed and envy? I’d love to hear your story.