Nightshifter

“Guardian dogs are another possibility,” I suggested. “Not sure how a donkey would do against a, um, cougar or wolf.”
She looked uncertain, while I spread my arms wide and brandished a shepherd’s crook as I approached the flock. Sheep are prey animals, and as such, they move away from pressure. If one applies enough energy at the correct angle, they should go wherever you wish.
In theory, anyway.
I did everything right. I placed a portable fence panel on one side of the door to help channel them through, then advanced on the animals on the diagonal. I kept my energy high enough to encourage movement but not so much to panic them into bolting and used the stick to direct them. When they eyed me, I waved the crook in a circular motion, and those closest backed away. That’s it . . . me, big bad wolf; you, keep moving.
It was an unfortunate thought, and it led to others—flashes of intestines lying in the mud. Which distracted me at a key moment. Still, any self-respecting flock of sheep would have traveled in a cluster toward the barn door and through it. They began to shift in an orderly fashion, but the ram—who possessed the unlikely name of Humphrey—lowered and shook his head.
“Nooo” I said, refocusing in an instant. “Don’t you . . .”
Humphrey backed up a step.
Crap.
I stretched my arms wide, shook the stick and waved my free hand in time to my suddenly pounding heart. For added emphasis, I bared my teeth and growled.
Too late.
Humphrey came at me. His flock split in two, one half leaping in a tight circle, the other bolting around the paddock’s outer circumference in a well-choreographed distraction maneuver. Humphrey weighed in at only a hundred pounds, but he possessed sufficient mass to propel that battering ram at me with knee-obliterating force.
Meanwhile, the distraction squad was pelting the circumference of the paddock as Humphrey charged at close to light speed—in any case, too fast for rational thought. While the little voice in my head screamed, “RUN,” something odd happened. It was as though time ground to a halt, and I saw him approach with startling clarity and in slow motion. I had time to crouch, sidestep, and grab him by the horns.
It wasn’t something I’d ever done before, and as time reverted to normal, it shocked me to have a firm grip on the struggling animal.
“Oh, don’t do that!” Darice called, as Humphrey’s momentum spun me in a circle. “You’re not supposed to handle their horns in spring!”
Confused as much by my success as her words, and not wanting to damage Humphrey, I let go. The ram shook his head once more as he rejoined his ladies, and the entire group gathered again along the fence.
At no point in the process did I detect anyone limping. I sighed, wiping more mud off my hands and onto my coveralls. I figured I was fast descending to “rugged.”
“I’ll get more oats.” Darice stomped toward the feed room located at the far end of the building. The grain strategy should have worked. We’d tried it first, dumping the feed in the barn, but only the greediest had fallen for it. Those hadn’t included Humphrey or the lame lady with the pink tag.
I looked over at my truck where a face hung over the half-opened window and a tail waved.
When my gaze met Keen’s, she gave a short, sharp bark that I interpreted as, let me out, I can help! I leaned on the crook and wiped sweat off my forehead; did my furry friend possess any latent herding instincts? I glanced over at Humphrey, who stared at me with a triumphant gleam in his beady eyes.
Minutes later, I had Keen on a leash. Darice appeared with her second bucket of grain and regarded my new strategy with alarm.
“Dr. Liam”—in her hesitancy, she lingered on the “L” in my name—“is she trained?”
Liam was actually my first name. My real last name was lost somewhere in the series of foster homes in which I grew up. I’d used Erikson since I was seventeen. With my clients, I liked to keep things casual, but, like many, Darice couldn’t help attaching the honorific.
I grinned at her as she chewed on her lip. “Nope.”
“I don’t want anyone hurt.” Any sheep, she meant.
“She’ll stay on the leash,” I promised.
Darice looked as though she might faint. Keen, on the other hand, vibrated with anticipation and began to bark at the sheep. As I exchanged glances with my woolly opponent, it wasn’t so much fear I saw as resignation. I was no longer an annoying, clumsy two-legger. I had friends with power.
Keen’s arrival was viewed with jaundiced eyes. The ewes clustered tightly around Humphrey, waiting for his judgment. He snorted, tossed his impressive head, and led his girls into the barn. His swift capitulation surprised me; so much so, I almost forgot to shut the gate behind him. I bent to pet Keen.
“It might be an idea,” I told a wide-eyed Darice, “to get yourself a dog.”

3
By the time I made it to the clinic, I knew I had a fever. I barely kept my eyes open as Darlene ran through the afternoon’s clients. Finally, after repeating the results of a dog’s bloodwork at least twice, she fixed me with her piercing blue gaze and put her hands on her substantial hips. “Your car accident victim from last night is doing fine, and I can handle the rest of your appointments, including—thank you—Walter’s damned donkey. Go home.”
I pictured Walter Friesen’s donkey, also known as “Fang.” The animal was a local legend. He had a metabolic condition that necessitated frequent hoof work and a personality that required tranquilizing. I was pretty much the only one who would do the deed.
I would owe my colleague big time for this. But as I considered hauling my feverish ass out to Walter’s farm, a wave of dizziness almost drove me to my knees.
Darlene tossed her unruly mop of brown curls