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Every morning it does not take long to be surrounded by wool. Near the entrance to the middle field, close to the stables, the ground is rather churned up and muddy, although the mud is drying out a bit now due to not having had any rain for a few days, by some rare British miracle. Atop the mud there are three sheep closing in, ears vectored towards me, converging apace, knowing that surrounding me can only bring them fuss, cuddles and discs. From left to right they are: Lucky, Skippy and Brambles.