We all knew to be on the lookout for the wolf in sheep’s clothing, a nice pair of khaki slacks and a polo shirt that one sheep used to wear to impress dates, but none of us knew to also be wary about the coyote in a clown-suit roaming the meadow.
We all thought it was a regular clown.
“Great, a clown,” we sarcastically remarked when we saw him.
Someone said that clowns scare them, because it’s a conversational shorthand for “the inevitability of death frightens me and I need a connection, however fleeting, to survive the day,” and sometimes we need a little help keeping the wolf from the door.
Now coyotes are natural mischief-makers but the coyote in a clown-suit, he was something else. He was spotted going through the bins, which should have tipped us off about him being a coyote, but immediately he started transforming rubbish into poodles and giraffes for the lambs and kids, so we let it go.
“Clowns scare the willies outta me,” I muttered. “That’s called Coulrophobia,” said a well-dressed sheep with a wolfish grin sidling up to me, “Say that’s a fine wool suit, how’s about I buy you a drink?”