A chorus of sharp bleats rent the air as Tilly entered the barnyard. “What’s got them all fired up?” she queried, a wave of apprehension coursing through her innards. George had been at the shearing longer than usual. What could be keeping him? Heading toward the sheep enclosure, she immediately was struck by a horrific odour of blood and faeces. Observing a dozen newly shorn heads, she felt relief until her eyes lit upon George’s bedraggled carcass crumpled in the corner. The shears were still whirring away, jutting out of his chest cavity. Old Bessie had suffered her last shearing.
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Rude Awakening by Richard Lau"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="136694 by S.F.J. Painter"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Network Error by Kristin Lennox"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Teke Two by Liam Hogan"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>