When I went into my bathroom this morning, I looked out of
the window at the rising ground behind my house and saw eight sheep walking in
line astern down the middle of the field. (Yes, I am one of those strange
people who count everything.) ‘Here comes the Clanton gang,’ I thought, much
impressed at such drollness so early in the morning. And when the sheep at the
front changed course to head towards the trees in the bottom corner of the
field, the rest dutifully followed.
But then there was another one about fifty yards behind, seemingly uninterested in its fellow ovines and more inclined to be taking a solitary and relaxing walk on a relatively fine morning in early autumn.
‘Aha, I thought, an INFJ sheep. Welcome, brother.’
(Of course, it might simply have been the one the flock rejected, but that would be sad so I chose not to countenance the idea.)
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