Trumper, ICE and the Business of Rounding Up

I was watching Shaun the Sheep the other evening. Harmless comfort viewing. Sheep wandering about, the farmer blissfully incompetent, nothing heavier than a misplaced sandwich.

Then Trumper the dog catcher arrives. That is his actual name. Trumper. You could not make it up if you tried.

He pulls up in his van and gets on with the business of collecting anything that does not belong where he thinks it should. No grand speech, no moral struggle, just steady confidence and a system that runs without hesitation. The sheep are in the wrong place according to the rulebook. That is sufficient.

And yes, the name does rather sit there on its own.

What struck me was not villainy but conviction. Trumper believes in the net. He believes in the cage. He believes in process. Once the sheep are categorised as strays, the rest follows automatically. Their individual woolly lives are irrelevant. They become units to be gathered.

It is difficult not to see shades of ICE in that mindset. Not because claymation equals federal policy, but because of the same mechanical certainty. Label someone illegal and the conversation contracts. Context fades. Family, work, contribution, history. The apparatus does what it was designed to do and measures success by visible activity.

Recent events in Minneapolis have amplified that impression. A heavy federal presence, conspicuous enforcement, statements delivered with unwavering assurance. The display of control becomes the message. Whether the display reassures anyone seems secondary.

No serious person disputes that immigration law exists or that it has to be enforced. The issue is temperament. There is a difference between restraint and zeal. When enforcement begins to look proud of its own visibility, something shifts. Jackets emblazoned with large letters. Convoys that feel as though they are part of a production. Language that leaves little room for doubt or reflection.

In the film, Trumper is faintly absurd because he never pauses to consider whether his solution fits the situation. He has cages, so he uses cages. Children laugh because the overreach is obvious. The sheep are not masterminds. They are simply in the way.

With ICE, the laughter drains away. When the system is built around removal, removal becomes the measure of competence. The bigger the operation, the firmer it appears. Meanwhile, communities are left tense and divided, wondering whether this display of authority has solved anything at all.

Sitting in Old Sodbury with a cup of tea, it was hard to ignore the irony. A children’s character named Trumper, dedicated to rounding up anything out of place, feels less like innocent satire and more like uncomfortable commentary. When the van and the cage become symbols of virtue in themselves, judgement has quietly stepped aside.

And that, unlike plasticine sheep, does not spring harmlessly back into shape when the credits roll.