Dave and the Sheep

When you’re young, broke, and think you’re bulletproof, you’ll live anywhere. For me and my mate Tom in 1986, “anywhere” was a fibro shack in Olinda. The walls were thin, the corners mouldy, and the carpet smelled like it had absorbed every bong ever smoked in the postcode. Perfect for two blokes in their late teens with low standards and even lower priorities.

Tom and I both worked in bottle shops. Not the same one, mercifully. Each morning he’d head down one side of the mountain to his shop, and I’d trundle down the other side to mine. It was almost poetic, two young blokes starting at the same summit every day, descending in opposite directions to spread equal amounts of chaos to the unsuspecting drinkers of the flat lands below the Dandenongs.

The shack was part of a pair of identical houses, mirror images of each other, like the builder had only paid for one set of plans and just flipped it. Out the back was an enormous yard with no fence between the two properties. Just grass. Endless bloody grass.

Now, we weren’t much for gardening. In fact, we weren’t much for anything that didn’t involve smoking, drinking, or listening to music. Our idea of landscaping was sitting in the lounge, ripping bongs, playing pool, blasting tunes, and staring out the big back window at our ever-growing lawn like it was some kind of personal rainforest. Maintenance? Not our department.

One Saturday, I woke up late. “Mid-morning” if we’re being generous, “early afternoon” if you’re my mum. I sparked up a heart starter and was feeling mellow when there was a knock at the door. Expecting one of the boys, I answered it in nothing but jocks. First mistake.

Standing there wasn’t a mate, but a young woman. She was in a suit, clipboard in hand, and the first thing out of her mouth was, “And who are you?”

“I’m Dave,” I said, trying to sound confident despite being half-stoned and half-naked.

“And your surname, Dave?”

Now, given I’d just woken up, was standing in my jocks, and looked about as professional as a wet ashtray, I was already at a disadvantage. Still, I gave her my surname. She glanced down at the clipboard, nodded to herself, and confirmed what I already suspected. I wasn’t on the lease.

“And who do you live with here, Dave?” she pressed.

“Just my mate Tom,” I said.

That earned me a disapproving little tutt-tutt. “Neither of you are listed as tenants. You’ll need to come into the office TODAY and get this sorted.”

By now, the novelty of standing half-baked at the door in my underwear while being scolded by Clipboard Lady was wearing thin. “Yep, sure, no worries,” I said, and started to close the door.

“I’m not here about that,” she said.

Great. What now? Rent was paid, and the house was such a mouldy dump that we thought we were doing them a favour living there.

“I’m here about the grass.”

I froze. The grass? How does she know? And who calls it grass anymore?

Turns out she was talking about the lawn. “It’s too long. The neighbours have complained.”

Relief hit me like a freight train. “Oh! Right, yeah. I’ll talk to Tom.” She gave me one last lecture about the lease and marched off. I went back inside, put on pants, and lit another billy. Problem solved.

Later, Tom came home. We dragged an ancient lawn mower out from under the house. It was covered in spider webs, smelled faintly of petrol and regret, and looked like it hadn’t started since Whitlam was Prime Minister. We pulled the cord a few times, fiddled with the spark plug, swore at it, pulled the cord again, and then shoved it back under the house where it belonged. Job done.

Or so we thought.

The next Saturday: KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

Clipboard Lady, round two.

“Do you remember me from last week?” she asked.

“Yes,” I sighed. “Sorry, we didn’t make it to the office. We’ll try today.”

“What about the grass? You’ve still done nothing.”

I protested. “We tried! The mower wouldn’t start!”

She gave me a look that could kill weeds on sight. “Not good enough. Hire one. Or pay someone to cut it.”

Bloody hell. The grass again. Who cared? Not us. Not our mates. Certainly not the carpet in the lounge room that had given up the will to live. But apparently, it was the scandal of the street.

That night, Tom’s mate Mal came around. Mal was the pub’s “yardy”, he did the grunt work, lugged kegs, mopped floors. He wasn’t the brightest, but he was cheerful, easy company, and, most importantly, always keen for a bong.

After a few cones and a couple of bourbons, we started moaning about the grass and Clipboard Lady. Mal thought for a moment, then came out with:

“Why don’t yuz just get a sheep?”

I nearly spat my drink. “Where the hell are we gonna get a sheep, Mal?”

“Don’t worry,” he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “I’ll nick one for yuz.”

We laughed, had another billy, and moved on. I assumed he was joking.

Until midweek.

It was one of those classic Hills nights: wet, dark, and miserable. Mal rocked up, and we did what we always did, lit up, had a few drinks, blasted music. After a couple of hours, he casually remembered:

“Oh yeah. I got yuz a sheep.”

I blinked. “Wait. What?”

“It’s out the back of the ute.”

So we stumble outside into the rain, and there she was: a soggy, depressed-looking sheep tied to the ute, radiating pure regret.

We unhitched her, led her into the backyard, and tied her to a long bit of wire that ran the length of the block. Perfect grazing range.

“How the hell did you even get it?” I asked.

“Well,” Mal said proudly, “I was out near Lilydale. Jumped a fence, chased ‘em till I caught one, chucked it in the ute.”

I had no idea how he’d managed it, but I wasn’t about to question the man.

We named her Spit, short for spit roast. The plan was simple: she eats the lawn, we eat her.

And Spit did her job with military efficiency. Within days, the backyard was immaculate, like something out of Better Homes and Gardens. Grass no more than an inch high. Spit, meanwhile, had doubled in size and looked like she was eyeing us suspiciously.

Our place was always full of visitors. It was a bit of a party hub. One of life’s great joys was watching someone stumble past the big lounge-room window at night, squint into the gloom, and blurt out: “Wait… is that a sheep?”

Yep. That’s Spit. Welcome to Olinda.

She lived with us for a while, munching away like a four-legged lawnmower, until one day we came home and she was gone. Rope and all.

She hadn’t escaped. She’d been stolen.

We stood there like detectives at a crime scene, staring at the empty patch of grass. “What kind of monster steals a man’s sheep?”

Not just any sheep, either. Our sheep. The one we didn’t legally own, didn’t pay for, and technically were hiding as evidence of another crime. The only real claim we had to her was squatters’ rights.

But still, she was ours. And someone pinched her. It wasn’t just theft. It was grand larceny with a side of audacity.

And worst of all? Within a week, the grass was knee-high again.