Animal Farm

There is a dog here that was born on Christmas day to a mother who had supposedly been fixed. Ironically, he was named Lucifero, and he is the sweetest, snuggliest dog I have ever met. His sister, Luna, spends the majority of her time perched on the roof of her doghouse, grimly keeping watch over the chicken coop.  “The Sopwith Camel”, as I have come to call it, was made by the volunteer farmhand before me, and though it was made with love, it was shoddily built, and I often find poor Luna tangled hopelessly around wayward 2x4’s and bits of fallen-in roof. In the chicken coop live a gaggle of hens, a pidgin with a broken wing, and a lone duck. The duck, who spent most of the first day eyeing me suspiciously as I hoed the garden, starts quacking enthusiastically every time the dogs bark, and seems to have been begrudgingly accepted into the chicken community due only to his lack of same-species companionship. Finally, there are five or six cats that lounge around the farmyard. They are fairly independent, apart from the smallest one—-a perpetually hungry black kitten with green eyes—-who has fallen in love with me and has taken to lunging at me with his claws out, trying to climb me whenever I walk past.

Then, of course, there are the sheep. One hundred and thirty five, plus a few lambs, all very timid and loud-mouthed. They follow anything white. The four herding dogs are all white, but the sheep don’t stop there. Yesterday one of the chickens flew the coop into the small pasture, and we found the sheep bobbing along in a loose line behind the oblivious chicken, who was making his way across the field in search of grubs. I thought that I would bond with them somehow, what with me yanking on their breasts twice a day, but so far I have felt very little in terms of sheepish appreciation.

Life here is tranquil and fun. I catch myself smiling for no apparent reason as I work around the farm, or as I take the rickety bike out to the countryside or to the town of Cutrofiano. People are very kind—-Domenico, the loud, eccentric sheep herder; Mari, sarcastic and jolly; Andrea, the boy my age who already cares for three separate orchards and gardens by himself and taught me how to properly harvest broccolini and lettuce; Ziggy, the dreadlocked falcon-trainer who always has cookies in his pocket. And many more warm-hearted and friendly people. I haven’t washed my clothes in almost three weeks, my nose is freckled, and my hair smells like sheep, and I am immeasurably happy to be right where I am.