This morning there were 18 sheep. We counted and recounted them. Eighteen. Staring at us and huddled close. There slight defensiveness I took for our own presence, though they seemed more spooked by us then normal. My husband set off along the fence line, I drove to the bottom gate to check the fences there, searching for the nineteenth. We did not find a tangled strangled sheep. With baby on back, I hiked up and he went down to the lowland swampy area. Thinking we’d find one of the old girls, probably laying dead from a heart attack. Twenty steps up a bright shiny red stuck out low on the black rocks. The ewe’s body blended with the tones and shadows of the rocks. Her stomach was swollen, dark colored organs and the bright red of her insides bubbled up. Another cavity clawed out under her arm. Her neck crooked back, unnatural like.
Whether it was coyotes scrounging on an already dead ewe from bloat or a cougar, we weren’t sure. My father-in-law came over to scour the ground with us. We looked together. He knew immediately as we had suspected that it was cougar, from the wound on the neck. A young cat. Grabbed her while she was bedded down. Bit into her neck, clawing with its hind legs at her body, puncturing her gut and under her arm by the heart. Must of been a young cat, scared off by our dog’s barking, not knowing enough to drag its dinner away with it. To hide the ewe till it could come back later and feast.
The magpie called from the tree. Speaking to my father-in-law. We stood listening. It spoke for a while. The baby babbled on my back. Of all my walks along these trails, it was the first magpie to come forth and not shy away at my approach. There was nothing else to do, but begin digging the hole for the ewe. My husband set off to finish the winter coral, a necessity now that the cougars had found us.