“I only found one of 14 ewes alive. 13 laying on the pasture dead. It was an act of joy. It wasn’t an act of I’m hungry I need something to eat.”
The wolf was satisfied. It was apparent in the way it was sprawled out on the cool cave floor, on its back, rubbing its bloated tummy with its bloody paws. Dried brown blood caked its jaws, and for good measure and unintended dramatic effect, it belched, which was followed by a dribble of vomit. Unlike mankind, wolves cannot vomit a little in their mouths and swallow. This is what it feels like after you mutilate thirteen sheep.
It was good to be a wolf, especially under the protection of the Endangered Species Act (ESA) of 1973. Loosely interpreted, it meant mayhem and carnage without consequences.
To fully understand how good the wolf had it, it can only be likened to the entitled privilege of old white men. Ask any true “white” man, and they will all say, white, with the ‘h’ before the ‘w’, ergo hwite. Unchecked power is what the swamp is composed of. The reptiles and shitty fish live in the swamp. Many of these creatures are old “white” men. Many of these old “white” men are racists.
At the risk of sounding like a presidentist, Trump is a greedy pig. He wants all the money, all the power, and all the airtime.
It would be easy to say that the wolf was a victim to its predatory and vicious nature, but the fact of the matter was, the wolf was ridiculously intelligent. There was obsessive calculation behind its decadent behavior. It knew exactly the what what. Imagine the biggest dick you know and multiply that by ten. The wolf’s mantra was long, but to the point: When there are absolutely no repercussions, the one who begins chaos, controls.
The wind picked up and like an omen, a newspaper flew in and caught the wolf’s face. Since the wolf was an evil genius, it flaunted it by reading the article aloud. “Acting Secretary of the Interior, David Bernhardt seeks to end federal protections for the wolf.”
The wolf sat up and gulped loudly. It could be heard through most of Wisconsin.
MORAL: Count your chickens every chance you get, because you know, life.