When Dad sheared sheep, he left them with sideburns so they looked like late era Elvis.
Once when we were visiting the home farm on the Coast, we tried to move a dead sheep and both ended up retching. My stoic little sister held the contents of her stomach intact. That ghastly sound of expellent air as we tried to move it. The smell, the smell.
At high school in Gore, the worst insult the boys could hurl at a girl was “Dead sheep”.