Would my new sheep have any wool? Yes sir, three bags full!

Three male lambs, wide-eyed, were lifted one by one into the back of my Honda. Two covered in gray curls, one in white, barely filled the space; the hatch clicked easily closed. The Vermont farmers had promised they’d fit, but it was still a relief. My car had become part farm truck, hay piled over a thick tarp.

I’d been tense on the two-hour drive, committed to this odd decision. Now, husband at the wheel, I looked back at the lambs chewing and staring out the window, and felt blissfully at ease. We smiled at the occasional low baaas, a storybook sound.

We had a dog, cats, hens, and goats, but my desire to know another species had become irresistible. Through decades of marriage, each new animal was proposed (by me), generally resisted (by him), debated, and finally agreed upon. Then loved, by both of us.

After choosing a breed (there are hundreds) I contacted a farmer with pregnant ewes and sent a deposit. In the first spring of the pandemic — jobless, anxious — I e-mailed to back out. But she responded, Three lambs are waiting for you. Pictures were attached. Seemingly heartfelt, it was also good business. Waiting for me? I couldn't let them down.

We live in a town with no room for grazing. Turning off the highway, we drove to the farm where they would board.

All summer I led them easily with leashes from barn to field. I improvised children's songs as we walked: "We are Pippin and Panda and Johann. Three happy sheep with our wools on." When I knelt in the grass their munching paused; silky faces and cushioned bodies pressed in, wanting rubs and scratches. When I led them to the car, heading to new pasture, they jumped in as soon as the hatch swung open.

Fall came. Time for a shearing. The local expert maneuvered swiftly, the lambs calm as their fleece — the first and finest of their lives — fell away. Bodies smooth and shrunk to half-size, they seemed happy to have their wools off.

I hadn't thought much past this new ritual, to the three bags filled to overflowing with lambs wool. Such abundance made me grateful. I’d been granted my sheep wishes and — more magic — this gift.

Off to a small mill went the virgin fleece, returning as a box packed with yarn. Dozens of skeins, in cream and heathers.

I had knit doll blankets in childhood, abandoned sweaters as an adult. So I needed a small project. Socks. Apparently, beginning knitters feared them, as patterns started with reassurances: curves, heels, gussets (gussets?) — all manageable. Two colors added charm: one for cuffs, heels, and toes, another for the foot.

Color! I grew bold, riveted by descriptions of home-grown yarn dyed with fruit and vegetables, and flew to the fridge, grabbing cabbage, beets, and blueberries. In minutes, cabbage leaves simmered on the stove. One hunk of yarn went in creamy; hours later I held it up, dripping and pale green. "Yarn pasta," my husband called it. More skeins steeped till they turned rose, red, and variations on gold.

After a batch dried, I cast on stitches for my first sock. It went well and I kept on, so very rich in yarn.

Mostly, I am rich in sheep. They let me pretend I’m a shepherd, an old-fashioned, comforting word. If I need an excuse to spend time sitting on hillsides, this is one. Hands deep in warm curls, my fingers turn soft and brown with dirt and lanolin. A moist nose touches mine, a head rests on my shoulder. A hoof paws my arm, asking for attention.

In the coming days I will pick up needles and knit a few more rows, though an intimacy with yarn was never the goal. I just wanted sweet sheep with their wools on. I had tried, briefly, to back out of the whole thing. But these lambs were waiting for me.

Elissa Alford is a writer in Western Massachusetts. Send comments to [email protected]. TELL YOUR STORY. Email your 650-word essay on a relationship to [email protected]. Please note: We do not respond to submissions we won't pursue.