11. How to Kill a Sheep

Part One

A sheep's only defense is other sheep.

They have no claws or fangs: mass or speed. If a single sheep is chased long enough by a predator, it can have a heart attack—death by fear.

So, they stick together. It's far from a perfect strategy. And attrition can be high depending on either the height of the fence or the power of the predator.

How do I know this?

Well, one March morning, I found out what can happen to unprotected sheep.

Mr. Fletcher burst into the house, like usual. But the way his cap just barely sat on his head betrayed him. Something was wrong.

"I need your help. There's trouble at your neighbor’s."

"What trouble?" I said, putting the kettle on.

"Well, you know that fuckin dog they asked me to take care of while they went on fucking vacation during lambing season?"

"Yes, of course."

"They chained him up in the barn, and he got out and killed about fifteen of the sheep.'

"Holy shit."

"Yup, and you're the only one he likes, or at least listens to, so can you come up there with me and try to get him back in the barn?"

I don't know why I said yes, maybe because he was scared and he was never scared. Perhaps because it made me feel capable. Those days, only my boys asked for help; rides, snacks, art projects for school, you know, Mom stuff. But this seemed bolder like there would be an anthem rock soundtrack and a slowly furling flag behind me.

So I said, "OK, but I'm not going unless you have a gun."

"It's in the truck."

Bear was a Rottweiler, bought off some dude who owned a junkyard in Brooklyn. He was big and stupid and excellent, oblivious to the effect his mere presence had on people. For some reason, he didn't scare me. I could see how hard it must be to be a good dog trapped in a terrifying body. He reminded me of my Dad, actually, who was also a good guy stuck in a terrifying body.

We drove up to the farm, not saying very much. It was not a jolly mission, like going to get pig feed or birch saplings. Just the local country music station, playing yet another song about drinking.

"Why are so many country songs about drinking?” I asked only to break the silence. “And why do they seem to play them in the morning? Who drinks in the morning?"

"Well, didn't you used to?”

"True."

We pulled into the driveway. The March snow lay in balding patches. The morning light was flat and gray and still.

Bear was out in the sheep pen about fifty yards away. He had cornered a lamb who was trying valiantly to use his dead mother as a shield.

We got out of the truck without discussing the plan, which was a mistake. The scene was too jarring, too macabre, and it was too hard to be logical. There were dead sheep everywhere, lambs bleating, blood all over the snow.

I don't remember where Mr. Fletcher was at that moment. My brain could only take in the carnage before me. Again, stupid. You should always know where your wingman is in a bar fight. I used to know that.

I jumped out of the truck and did not shut the door. The beeping of an open truck door was the only other sound. Bleating and beeping. Bleating and beeping.

I opened the gate too quickly—the third mistake. My maternal instincts took over. When a disaster involves babies, a woman has no choice.

I tasted metal.

I had tasted it once before, that metal taste that comes out of nowhere; when my youngest son had a terrifying seizure during our last family holiday. It's crazy that I thought I could save a marriage by renting a villa with a view of the sea, teach the boys to surf, and remind my husband nightly how good the sex was. Clearly, I could not stop a slaughter that had already occurred.

"Bear," I screamed, full of disappointment, "Bear honey, what have you done?"

He turned his head away from a lamb who now ran for the barn's open door. Then he began to run at me—120 pounds of black and brown rage. His lips were curled back, and the speed he was able to manifest was remarkable. I'd like to tell you that I saw blood and flesh in his teeth, you know, to complete the menacing picture in your head. But I didn't, just this massive animal barreling toward me. He did not recognize me. I did not recognize him. Whomever Bear used to be had disappeared, and this mindless creature had replaced him.

It's like my particular mental illness. You see, I have this crazy, I mean, bat shit crazy person inside me all the time. For a long time, she'll go dormant. I'll make solid, strategic choices. Revel in the progress I'm showing as a human being. Delight in the small things and show gratitude for everything. Then out of the blue, I'll hear the rattlings of a visitation in some hostile conversation or terrifying situation that tastes like metal.

The worst part about it is when the bat shit crazy part elbows the sane me aside, it's impossible to remember that the kind, stable me lives inside too. The two pieces do not make good roommates. There's simply not enough space.

I surprised myself though, and rather than doing nothing, my bat shit crazy coping mechanism in hostile situations, I shouted, "Shoot him."

Now I'm pretty sure Mr. Fletcher had already squeezed the trigger. He was not one to take orders from a woman or allow any harm to come to one.

Bear dropped about ten feet in front of me. Dead before he hit the ground.

I wet my pants.

Don't laugh.

You would have too.

Now, the metaphorical significance of this massacre did not dawn on me then. It was hard enough calling Bear’s owners, rescuing the lambs that might make it, and generally parking the trauma of almost being killed by a dog somewhere far away.

But I’ve figured it out. The big meaning. The Holy Shit that’s it isn’t it meaning. So, let’s all regroup, take a breath, and meet back here next week for the rest of the story.

Let’s pretend it’s 1983 and you don’t get to know what happens on Falcon Crest until next Monday.