Brontë's got it in for me. One day you'll find me face down in the pasture with just one small cloven hoof print on my back.
So there you have it. Accident? I think not. I was lame for a couple days but no permanent damage. This time. Yesterday, after I put the animals into the pasture Brontë walked back to the gate and stood looking up at me (it's sort of a Brontë pose . . . as you can see) as if to shoot the breeze for awhile, maybe inquire after my injuries, assess the damage, survey her handiwork. She assured herself I was still mobile, seemed satisfied, and returned to the flock with a gleam in her eye. Plotting, I imagine, for her next opportunity.