Sheep

“You know how if you look at clouds you can see things in them? But they aren’t really there? It’s just your mind interpreting the information?” Greg shifted on the exam table, letting his unfocused eyes drift over a series of medical posters. “I was thinking, like, who’s to say that everything around us isn’t like seeing shapes in clouds? Like, not real, just our brain’s interpretation of something we don’t really understand. Everything we think is there and solid because we can see it – it’s all a mistake.”

“What?” the doctor said, glancing up from Greg’s chart. “Clouds?” He looked irritated. “Are you high? I only ask because if you’re on drugs–”

“No, I told you I’m just–”

“If you’re using, that could explain your sleep troubles.” He rolled back from the computer screen and searched Greg’s eyes. 

“Probably to make sure they aren’t dilated,” Greg thought. 

“A lot of people self-medicate because the drugs put them to sleep, but they don’t realize they’re just disrupting their sleep cycle which makes them more–”

“I’m not using drugs. I told you. I’m just…” Greg pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes. “I’m just really tired, and that was an example of the… weird thoughts I start having.”

The doctor knit his brows, but moved on. He had a schedule to keep. “Well, there’s nothing here to suggest anything to worry about.” He stood up, universal medical sign language for “we’re wrapping up.”

“I’m afraid all I can tell you is what you’ve probably heard before. Work on your sleep hygiene. No caffeine after noon. No screens a few hours before bed. Try to keep your bedroom just for bedroom stuff. And if these ‘weird thoughts’ are what’s keeping you up,” the doctor punctuated his distracted litany by opening the door to the waiting room, “There’s always counting sheep.”

Greg hadn’t bothered arguing, but he knew his sleep hygiene was immaculate. They should make health class filmstrips about him. His sleeplessness was so hygienic you could eat off of it.

He’d tried everything. He’d tried weighted blankets. He’d tried blankets that were light as a feather. He’d tried sleeping nude with no blanket at all. He’d cranked up the air conditioning to make his bedroom a cool, dry cave; and he’d left the windows open in the humid depths of summer until his bedroom was a midnight sauna. He’d covered every light with electrical tape and added blackout curtains and an eye mask for good measure; and he’d stripped the windows of all drapery to let the sun dictate his circadian rhythm. He’d tried hard mattresses, soft mattresses, and in-between mattresses like insomniac Goldilocks. He’d tried natural fibers, and synthetic. He’d tried memory foam, and foam he was sure couldn’t pick him out in a line-up.

Nothing had worked. Night after night he lay awake. The only way he knew he must have gotten some scattered sleep over the past year was that without it, he’d surely be dead by now. 

Waking had become one long dream of sleep. At work, his body felt so distant from his mind, he was startled he hadn’t been fired yet. He spent every day vaguely assuming it was inevitable, and gave thanks every night to whatever god of inattentive managers had allowed him to skate through another shift. When not working, he scrolled. Article after online-rabbit-hole-article extolled the healing power of sleep, and each rang true because he personally sensed that power’s absence. His skeleton felt as if it had been pulled apart and thoughtlessly reassembled without the manual. 

Every day he felt so tired, he thought surely this evening sleep would come. But as soon as his head hit the pillow, his hopes melted, and he stared into the darkness, feeling the weight of every future second.

That night, as Greg lay in bed, pondering another endless night, he remembered the doctor’s words. He frowned. Counting sheep was just about the only thing he hadn’t tried yet. It seemed like a bizarre relic of the past – that is, if it had ever actually been a thing people did. It was probably just an idiom, a way to literalize something approaching meditation. Instead of focusing on breathing to clear the head (in and out, in and out) he was expected to focus on counting, and the sheep were just… a thing to count.

What was so special about sheep? Did he have to visualize them to make it work? Did they need to jump over a fence? That seemed hectic, and more energetic than any sheep he’d personally seen. Goats jumped. Sheep seemed to prefer calmer pursuits. Grazing. Standing. Sitting. Your sheep basics. 

He exhaled and closed his eyes. Whatever the finer points of sheep-counting might be, the important truth was: he was desperate. Why not give it a shot?

A sheep appeared. It was puffy with unshorn wool, and bits of straw dangled off its under-curls. Its white fluff was tinged with dingy grey, and its ears flapped idly as if to shoo a stray gnat. Greg felt an unaccountable swell of pride that he was able to envision it so clearly, despite having no particular background in farming or animal care. 

“One,” he thought. 

The sheep stared back at him with placid, wide-set eyes, then stamped its hoof on the ground a single time, as if to echo: “One.”

Greg concentrated, and a second sheep appeared next to the first. This one was smaller, a lamb really. It half hid behind the larger animal, peering out toward Greg. “Two,” Greg thought.

The lamb stamped its hoof on the ground one time.

Greg’s brow knit around his closed eyes. He hadn’t told the lamb to stamp its hoof. Come to think of it, he hadn’t imagined the first sheep doing it either. They had both just sort of… done it. And if the hoof stomp was meant to be them counting along, then why hadn’t the lamb kicked at the ground twice?

He shook his head. Weren’t these the kinds of intrusive thoughts this exercise was supposed to banish? Don’t get sidetracked.

“Three,” he thought.

A third sheep appeared, this one fully-grown, but shorn, and – like the others – it clipped its hoof once against the ground. Just one time, again.

A thought occurred to Greg. There were three of them, but one of him. One. What if the sheep were counting him?