Sheba and her family had always been marchers. Their group leader was a mark-timing Drill Sergeant who pounded his hooves on the first and third and ran back and forth bleat-barking orders to stay in formation. Straight lines, even numbers, a square shape always. He said that’s the way the shepherd wanted it.
Sheba was small, but energetic and full of life. She loved the valley where they grazed, one family among the thousands claimed by the shepherd. She loved her family, her friends, and she tried to love her shepherd (even though she hardly saw him).
But she didn’t love the marching or drilling or the strict formation. She was clumsy, always tripping over her feet, and never seemed to learn the steps no matter how hard she tried.