The world’s oldest sheep has died after falling off a 150-foot cliff.

An ear tag on the blackface ewe, nicknamed Methuselina, showed that it was 25 years and 11 months old.  The blackface ewe was also nicknamed Twiggy because of her scrawny appearance

Crofter John Maciver, 51, put her longevity down to her still having most of her teeth, allowing her to graze easily, and her ‘independent spirit’.   How did she live so long.  Maciver said it was  because she still had most of her teeth, which allowed her to graze easily.

There was a heatwave in Australia recently, so Twiggy she headed for a cliff to cool down.  It’s not clear if the sheep jumped – or was pushed.  Animal detectives are investigating.

Mr. MacIver said, “It doesn’t matter how she died.  She’s gone.  Methuselina has met an unfortunate end. It’s very baaad.”

“She passed away and I wouldn’t say peacefully. I found her at the bottom of a rock.

“She had gone over a cliff and met her demise that way at the grand old age of 25 years and 11 months.”

Most sheep do not live longer than 12 years. The ewe was found dead on rocks at a beach on Lewis in the Western Isles.

The ewe – originally called Twiggy because of her ‘scrawny appearance’ – was found dead on rocks at Garry Beach on Friday.

The sheep was older than two of Mr Maciver’s grown-up children – aged 23 and 24 – and just a year younger than his eldest son who is 27.

‘It is a sad end,’ said Mr Maciver. ‘She was never a big sheep but she produced her last lambs three years ago and even then they were twins!

According to Guinness World Records, the oldest age recorded for a sheep ever was 28 years and 51 weeks.

The crossbred sheep was kept at Taliesin, near Aberystwyth in Wales.

Here’s the site of the potential sheepicide:

Guinness World Records is now actively looking for a contender to the title of ‘oldest sheep living’ any owner who wishes to make a claim can do it online at www.guinnessworldrecords.com.”

BBC News

The thunder of Zeus be upon you, O mortals!  Australia, the Great Desert, burns!

For I am Poseidon, master of the seas, lord of all things wet, and I have returned to claim my rightful place as a famous god.

I have been patient these past millennia, mortals.  I have awaited your worship, your prayers, your goodly sacrifices.  I have activated a Facebook account and long expected your friend requests.  And yet it appears that you have chosen to forget me: great, godly, terrible Poseidon.

Your ignorance has sparked my anger, your insolence has kindled it, and your arrogance has set it all ablaze!  The wildfires of Australia are merely emblematic of the awesome metaphorical heat of my rage.

I once believed my celebrity was assured.  You knew that the triremes sailed only at my pleasure.  You sensed how the smooth passage of your trade or the glorious victories of your wars were the gifts of my benevolence.  I was some deity.

And now I am all but forgotten.  Admired perhaps, but never loved.  Along came all those younger, next-best-thing gods, with their fresh visages and hip new centers of geopolitical power, and you fickle worshippers tossed me out like so much omnipotent garbage.

A few thousands years pass, and now look at me.  Look at me, mortals!  I’ve gained weight.  All that ice I fought so hard to keep on in the early days is turning into water.  I feel warm all the time.  There’s a patch of garbage the size of Texas on my back that I should really get looked at.  I’ve got higher mercury than Jeremy Piven—but he’s the one David Mamet makes a joke about.

Not worth a joke, no, alas, no!  Certainly not worth a sacrifice.  And it turns out, not even worth a decent movie.  (If you ask me, Wolfgang Peterson has just been phoning it in since Das Boot.)

At one point, I caught myself thinking: What happened?  I used to be such a big god.

And then I understood.  I’m still big.  It’s the religions that got small.

Mark me now, all; sailors, potters, philosophers, dramatists all: I, Poseidon, immortal Olympian and architect of fate, will no longer suffer your betrayal.  I will see my horse sacrifices performed with all due ceremonial ritual—in ancient Greek—or the fury of my comeback will know no bounds on this earth.

Australia is beginning to understand what you will all know soon enough: the inconvenient truth that I, Poseidon, have returned!