For the trip, my old buddy Brian Phillips rode shotgun in what I used to call my rusty, trusty pick-up. Sadly, it’s trusty no more. The last time I went to pick it up after service, mechanic Mike Staffin still had it up on the rack. "Jim," he said from underneath the truck, "step under here." When I stood beside him, Mike pointed up and spoke like a doctor outside a great-grandma’s hospital room.

"The old lady’s in very delicate shape," he said. And to confirm this, he reached up and closed a hand on a rusty metal sleeve on a rod. The metal crumbled and rained in bits down his forearm. "What you have here now," Mike pronounced, "is a farm truck. She’s OK for round trips to Agway, maybe to Oneonta. But no farther."

After he’d backed her out and I’d slid behind the wheel, Mike added a final caution. "Watch out for potholes. You don’t want to drop the motor in the road." That was sobering. I guess the mounts are almost as bad off as that sleeve he crumbled.

With Brian watching for potholes, I drove very carefully the 20 or so miles over to Sue and Bruce Smith’s Welcome Acres Farm. Their mailing address is Mt. Vision, but the route there is through the back of beyond: Out of Hartwick on West Hill Road, then a turn onto Jones for a long run, then a right onto North Welcome Road, which turns into a seasonal road for its last few miles. At that point I always look to the right and watch for sheep. And there they were. A big flock grazing through the thin snow meant we’d arrived.

Brian and I climbed down and greeted Sue, a warm, funny woman with real love for her animals. As we walked into the barn, she explained that our last-year’s rent-a-ram was busy elsewhere. When I commented on some beautiful Katahdins milling in the first pen, she said, "Wanna take one of them?"

Katahdins are a breed out of Maine also called "hair sheep." They don’t develop a thick fleece of wool, but have a coat that lies close to the body. When I first got one as an experiment years ago, my old mentor Arrie Hecox dismissed it with a scornful snort. "That’s no sheep!" he declared. "That’s a goat!"

Well, with apologies to old Arrie, I got Sue’s son to load a Katahdin ram on the pickup. Sue hadn’t named that one yet. For convenience, I’m calling him Stud.

We waved goodbye and Brian, Stud, and I headed down the gravel drive, our course set for Fly Creek. Brian’s a great conversationalist, and I hardly gave thought that the motor might drop into the road. It didn’t. The mounts held, and we made it back home and pulled into the sheep paddock. Stud jumped down among the three ewes. There ensued a lot of polite sniffing and gentle butting but nothing more in our presence. We pulled the pickup out, closed the gate, and left the four to socialize.

I wouldn’t say this in front of them, but our three ewes are mongrels _ mostly horned Dorset, but a mix of other breeds, too. But all three have heavy fleeces, and adding Katahdin to the recipe will probably make for some interesting-looking lambs: Kahtadins with tufts of wool here and there, or Dorsets with bald spots. But never mind. Their mothers will love them, and we have no mirrors in the sheep shed.

Stud will be with us through New Year’s, and I had expected to make another harrowing rusty pick-up trip to take him home. But synchronicity has taken a hand. The very day after Stud’s arrival, I met Dr. Tom Huntsman in the Fly Creek General Store. Tom keeps a small sheep flock up Fly Creek Valley. (You may remember my telling you that, while Tom was abroad last year, I was summoned there to free a sheep who’d wedged her head in the hay rack. I got her loose despite Tom’s two rollicking labs who insisted on trying to help.)

Dr. Tom asked if I were renting a ram in this year, and I told him about Stud’s arrival the day before. Now Tom’s calling Sue to ask if, when Stud’s done his duty at our place, Tom can pick him up and haul him up the valley. Then, before Valentine’s Day, he’ll haul Stud back to Welcome Acres and perhaps still another job.

I hope Stud gets a Valentine’s assignment. It seems apt.

Shunting males among farms is a standard operation for large-animal raisers. On our ride back to Fly Creek, Brian told me a diverting story about a friend who had brought in a 500-pound boar pig to service several huge sows. The boar did his work, but he fell in love with the place and the company. So he refused to climb the ramp onto the truck for a ride home.

Hogs, as you know, have a low center of gravity, and they stand on four disproportionately short legs. Trying to move a large stubborn one is like trying to muscle a quarter-ton safe up a ramp. The outcome was that, a year after his job ended, the strong-willed boar is still in residence. I guess his owner doesn’t care since he’s safe and well fed.

But I wonder, what will be that porker’s poundage when he eventually wears out his welcome and they finally take on moving him?

No such weighty problems with sheep, of course. But I’m still relieved that Stud’s trip home is somebody else’s job. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to amble out to the shed. Maybe I’ll spot some sheepish grins.

Read about Jim Atwell’s new book, "From Fly Creek _ Celebrating Life in Leatherstocking Country," at JimAtwell.com.