Just a few weeks ago

Looking Sheepish

Just a few weeks ago, in my annual holiday letter I made a plea for someone to take the sheep. It was, of course a joke, so you can imagine my amazement when, within days of the mass mailing, one of the sheep disappeared. Completely!

The obvious explanation is that she escaped through the meager fencing. I considered the possibility of a prank...but couldn't imagine one of our friends sneaking in here at night and hauling off a very filthy, 200 pound sheep. We walked around looking for her in ditches and nearby pastures (OK, we didn't look very hard, but we did look), but still no sheep. Gary and the boys made gross jokes about a midnight fraternity raid, etc., while I considered writing a post-Christmas letter thanking our friends but pointing out they took the WRONG sheep. You see, we are down to two sheep. (Of the original three-Blackie, Brownie and Whitey-Blackie had died two years ago). Whitey , the oldest, was one her last legs (supposedly) when we got her nine years ago. Brownie has nice wool and we could have found a home for her, but Whitey is past her prime-if she ever had one. Her udder practically drags on the ground, she doesn't have marketable wool and she is well past lambing age.

So we are left with Whitey and I have murder in my eye. Meanwhile, I am taking a Landscaping class and have grand plans for our property and they don't include a bucolic pasture dotted with sheep. Not even one sheep. So, at breakfast Sunday morning, I bring up the subject with the family. Strongly hinting to Gary that he do something about the remaining sheep. (Perhaps a side note is in order here. The sheep are Gary's, and solely his, ever since he brought them home over riding a losing vote of 3:1 thereby squashing any misconceptions that the Glein household is run as a democracy.) We joke around a bit more about the disappearance of Brownie wondering if we could locate the "culprits" and get them to do it again.

So, I'm a bit miffed at Gary as he shrugs off the sheep problem, but as it is a fine morning I set out to cleanup the garden and what do I find? A pile of white wool...wet white wool...under the pine shrub. And yes, there is a dead sheep attached. Barely able to contain my glee at the demise of the last remaining ewe, I compose a sober face and go back to the house to summon Gary and the boys and inform them we are now livestockless.

I'll gloss over the details about how Dead Animal Removal doesn't collect on Sundays (you can drag the body to Puyallup and they will accept it, of course) and how all the backhoes are already rented out, so you can picture Gary and Peter (Chris is playing a computer game and ignoring the excitement) digging a VERY big hole as close as possible to the body while trying to hold their breath. Because, although she hasn't been dead long (we can see what appears to be fresh droppings in the garden...and besides, we saw her yesterday) she is beginning to, ah, smell.

A few hours later the deed is done and I am tearing out rusty, crumbling fencing with vigor. After all, its about like having a rich spinster aunt who has FINALLY died. I am sad to see her go and all that, but now I am Spending The Inheritance!

My brother and father stop by and admired the freshly dug grave, the rhubarb just poking its nubs above the ground and the growing pile of discarded fence posts. I am just to the point of describing where I'm going to plant the grove of blueberries, when Peter gasps. Turning in unison to discover what might have startled him so, we see, to our collective horror, Whitey standing in the pasture.

In spite of ourselves, we turn, again in unison, to view the still intact grave.

As you have probably surmised, we had buried Brownie, not Whitey, who had evidently been hanging out in the shed for the past three hours before curiosity lured her outside. How we had overlooked the rotting carcass for six weeks not one of us could answer. How the wool turned white, we could not answer either. I guess it goes without saying that we have not had much experience with dead animals, or we would have picked up on a few clues-not the least of which were the maggots.

So here I am, with murder in my heart again, and that is not a comfortable way to live. But I do have a warning for Whitey and any of my rich spinster aunts. Lock your doors and sleep with your back to the wall.

P.S. I'm so glad that while Gary and Peter were digging the hole, I resisted the temptation to estimate the time of death based on the onset of rigor-which had clearly set in. Reading about fictional forensic evidence, such as in Patricia Cornwell's series featuring heroine Dr. Kay Scarpetta, Coroner extraordinaire, may be amusing and informative, but damn near made me look a greater fool than I already am.