Chops to die for

The number of the flock has been reduced, finally, Sandy and Leviathan were sent to celestial pastures yesterday. Originally it was planned that they would go with Bonny and Maude, but somehow these two achieved pet status on the way to meet their maker and were given a reprieve at the last minute, much to the amusement of those tasked with their demise.
Sandy and Leviathan had nice lives, and their attempts to avoid becoming chops meant that they lived three times as long as those lambs belonging to the militia. The Ryeland has many attributes, its docility, size, ability to get fat on green concrete, its wool, most especially its flavour, but the one thing it does not do is go from lamb to plate very quickly. The militias sheep give birth to lambs that are Lewis Hamilton's, racing to the finish line, our Ryelands are geriatric slugs in comparison. Sandy is hardly classed as a lamb as he was born when Ben was at that military academy that has the word sand in it and a word that sound like thirst at the end. He gets a bit cross if he is mentioned on here so say no more. That was over two years ago! And he was still the size of a rabbit!
So Sandy and Levi were chopped up and placed with care in Mr Whirlpool today, and my reward for all my labour was a plate of chops to die for. Bless them.