Originally published by Apeiron Review

Screefield’s ears perked up like they always do when he sees wildlife. He looked ready to chase. But he was looking down twenty-feet of loose boulder towards the ice-covered Stillwater River, three-foot rapids bubbling out of the pockets where ice couldn’t tame the rush. That’s all I could think about, when I saw those ears—ice and rapids and my dog, Scree, gone with them.

My other two pups were still lost in the leisure of what the hike was to be when they looked up to see me running along the fifty-foot granite wall of the narrow canyon trail, screaming, raspy, desperate, “Leave it!”

Screefield has never “left it.” I have chased him for hours over miles, following paw prints in the snow, hearing playful yips as he flushed deer from distant foliage. It’s the only time his loyalty leaves him. It’s the wolf in him, what little there is.

But he did “leave it” this time. He stood on slick rock at the edge of the trail, staring down at something, his eyes ignoring my yelling but his body petrified. When I got to him, he finally looked at me. Down the tumble of rock and snow at the riverbank was a bighorn ewe sheep kicking her front hooves but unable to move, her back legs under her and her eyes wild and fixed on Scree.

Of all the whitetail deer Scree had chased and failed to get, he had no desire to get this bighorn sheep. Maybe the sport of it was gone. Maybe he felt bad for the ewe. It seemed, rather, he was worried. He looked up at me like I should do something. It was something he had never seen. He was uncomfortable and looking to me for understanding, for direction.

I felt the knife in my pocket, watching the ewe rock back and forth. Maybe its back hooves were caught between rocks. Maybe I could set it free. I began to go down to it, when my other two dogs noticed, finally being ripped from their seven-month old puppy world to the immediate world of this sheep stuck down by the rush of the river.

“Stay!” I yelled. Screefield sat, but the puppies launched at the new wonder.

I scrambled down the rocks, trying and failing to grab their collars. They circled the ewe, who still could only rock, kicking her front hooves as if to run. But her back legs remained motionless under her. Trail, my coonhound, bellowed, then looked to me and back at the bighorn. He didn’t know what to do but keep screaming. I joined, “Trail! NO!”

The other pup, Lana, an 80 lb. malamute puppy, ran around the ewe, barking, lost in her unsure surprise of this creature before her.

I grabbed Trail and threw his 60 lb. frame up a few rocks. He stayed when I did that. Screefield still looked down at me. I walked around the ewe to the icy riverbank, where Lana was still in front of the ewe, barking incessantly. The ewe eyed me, kicking her hooves at Lana’s barks and my screams.

My voice was getting hoarse, the fear of the rapids beneath Lana tearing at my larynx. I stepped carefully on the snow and deep grey of early spring ice. Below the ice was the sapphire tumble of waves and waterfalls that had carved the fifty-foot canyon walls around me. The ever-blue rush turned to jade and then foamy white in places where it navigated slabs of jagged granite, some of the boulders big as SUVs. The mess of rock, ice, and torrent didn’t slow down until dropping and leveling out a mile downstream where the trailhead was.

When I reached Lana, she went submissively limp, laying her back on the ice. I widened my feet, bent down to scoop her up, and began up the rocks. The sheep stopped kicking as I shuffled around her. I looked down at her back hooves, none of them lodged in the boulders. On the rocks, above the ewe, shit and sheep hair were scattered.

The sky had been trying to snow all morning, fog lying low in the canyon and wetting each rock, leaving the slope up to the trail slick. Some rocks were rooted in the slope and others ready to tumble. I met Trail halfway up the ascent and began slapping his ass, urging him up the hill. As stubborn as that coonhound can be, he skipped up the boulders.

When I got Lana up to the trail, Screefield greeted us with a paw on Lana’s head and a whine. I looked down at the bighorn, holding Lana’s collar, but feeling the knife in my coat pocket. I’d never killed anything before. I tried to picture it—putting my left hand on the ewe’s back, calming her for one last moment, and ripping my right hand and the knife across her throat.

Screefield was still whining. “I’m sorry,” I yelled, at no one and everyone. “I can’t do anything. Fuck.”

Lana was tugging at her collar, lunging down the rocks again. Trail followed her urges, running down the rocks to look at the marooned sheep again. His body was rigid, still unsure of what he was supposed to do, so he let out another cry from deep in his ribcage to let me know something had to be done.

“Trail! Trail, leave it. Come, Trail.” But he wouldn’t, couldn’t listen. He had found something and his puppy mind wouldn’t let anything else but his instincts enter it.

Why did I seldom hike with leashes? Why did I have to be so against ruining the freedom of my dog’s enjoyment in nature? Why was that a part of my moral code as a dog owner? Why was I not prepared for a moment like this?

I scrambled down after him, still holding Lana as she pulled me. Screefield whined, still watching. “Scree stay! Good boy. Thank you.”

I got Trail, and began lifting him with one arm, throwing him up the rocks, again. When I did, Lana got loose in the other hand, circled the ewe again—rough barks flying from her jaws just inches from the sheep. The ewe rocked, kicking her front hooves here and there.

I threw Trail up the rocks and pointed at him. He understood. When I went around the bighorn, she again stopped. I looked at her wet hair, watching it rise up and down. Her breaths were not heaving but slow, calm. She knew that I had no intentions to hurt her. She knew I wanted to get Lana and leave. She knew when I did, that she would be left with a fate she had already accept.

I grabbed Lana, threw her over my shoulder, and began the second ascent. “I’m so sorry,” I said while passing the ewe. A few feet above the sheep I slipped, letting Lana loose, and she again leapt up to meet the helpless ungulate.

I stood up, “Fuck. Lana! No! Come!” She stood in front of the ewe, barking over and over.

The ewe no longer kicked. She no longer looked Lana in the eyes. She just stared ahead at the steep canyon wall, perhaps up at the gaps in the fog, the white ripples of waterfalls petrified in ice on the cliffs of the canyon walls, or the hints of blue sky above the jagged ridges of the Beartooth Mountains.

I picked up a big rock and threw it down by Lana, “FUCK! COME! HERE! FUCK! LANA!”  She didn’t flinch, still barking at the sheep.

I took a deep breath and again went down to the iced riverbank. “Lana, get the fuck over here!”

When I reached her, she again flopped on her back. I picked her up, my legs starting to shake, sweat dripping from my mustache. I marched up, again slipping on the rocks, my legs and feet no longer having enough control to navigate the variable of each rocks’ stability and slickness.

“God dammit!” I tried to tug Lana up towards the trail by her collar, but she was still submissively limp. “Lana, let’s GO!” 

Trail was just above us, ready to leap down and bellow again. “Stay! You fucking stay, Trail.” He did.

I threw Lana over my shoulder and gave Trail a nudge on the butt. Focusing on finding solid rocks, I placed each foot down carefully while kicking my other knee up in front me to find the next safe step. Lana lay limp in my arms, her tongue lolling and still watching the ewe at the bottom of the hill. I held her tight, gripping her loose puppy skin with my hands, while shepherding Trail in front of me. At the top, Scree again greeted us with a paw and a whine. I set Lana down, holding tightly to her collar, and kicked Trail on the butt to keep him focused on getting down the path. Scree led the way, ready to leave the situation and go home, sprinting ahead fifty yards at a time before stopping to check on the pups and me. 

I don’t know what it means to die well. I don’t know what was behind that ewe’s stare up the canyon wall, into the gaps of fog, up at the last blue sky there was to find that day. I’m not sure about much of anything. But when I got to town I called the game warden. He told me he’d take care of it.