I never imagined that my death would come by way of a sheep avalanche, but as I watch the tumbling mass of floof barreling down the hill toward the stretch of road I am currently stalled on—it occurs to me that it would at least be a memorable way to go. “Christ.” I scramble to get the door of my ancient rental open—the door being on the wrong side, relatively, I might add, which means it’s in direct line of impact for the bleating army currently rushing toward me.
