Where I Find Myself

  The last thing I had expected to wake up to this morning was the sound of gunshots. Pop, pop. I kept my eyes shut. Pop. I rolled onto my back and folded the pillow around my ears, staring at the cracks in the plaster ceiling. Muffled gunshots penetrated the foam, sounding like far off fireworks. I couldn’t ignore it any longer.
  Getting up from the floor and looking out the second story window of this ancient farmhouse, I wanted to laugh. She ran around outside the house with her red flannel shirt all unbuttoned, showing her night shirt underneath, she wore a pair of gray sweatpants. Her boots were untied and nearly flopping off her feet with every stumbled step.
  The butt of her rifle was pressed firm to her shoulder.
  Panicked sheep ran wild in every direction, like they were running from wolves.
  Bullets flew in every direction.
  I couldn’t laugh.
  She was shooting her sheep.

. . .

  “An Analysis of the Forces Required to Drag Sheep over Various Surfaces.” This is the title of a report written by seven Australians in 2003, for their work, they were awarded with an LG Nobel Prize. They wrote that dragging sheep, ” is a difficult task, within the limits of only the most able men, and too physically demanding for almost all women.”

. . .

  I handed Jeremy a coil of orange extension cord. It was what was on hand.
  As I lifted a dead sheep’s head with my foot, Jeremy threw the cord beneath it. We tied it off tight and pulled.
  We are able men.

. . .

  “The optimum floor is a sloping surface constructed of wooden battens arranged parallel to the direction of drag.” So say the Australians.

. . .

  We pulled the carcass across a few hundred yards of dirt, ruts and clumps of grass and weeds. Away from the house.

 
  She was able to shoot her sheep, as they had escaped from their enclosure, and apparently this was easier than rounding them up the old fashioned way.
  We were able to drag them.

  Copyright © May 2008 Chris La Cour