Several years ago H and I found a bobcat den, a hole in the ground covered loosely by leaves. Sitting in front of this front door was an upturned leaf carefully filled with urine. If this sounds as fantastical as it looked, I promise y'all the smell was unmistakably real, a smell no one could ever forget.

This morning Daisy came in from her customary dawn outing with a mouthful of the urine of a wild animal---but I don't think its bobcat. This, she dribbled on the arm of the chair where I am sitting. Which, I think, was done on purpose. She's never done such a thing before. I think she intends a very clear message and possibly a directive: "This animal is here. No use barking about it. But you better do something." What I'm going to do is get up and wash my hands, my arm, and this chair. And spend the rest of the day wondering what kind of animal? Coyote is likely, or fox. Bear? There was certainly a strong enough tang of ass in the mix. But it seems to me bears have a sickly sweetness in their smell? Oh, the things humans no longer know. We've grown so small its sad, in ways.

I have a friend down the road who learned about a kind of net used a long time go to help support the vulvas of livestock prone to vaginal prolapse in late pregnancy. The net is woven in such a way as to support what needs supporting, without falling apart, and yet allow the baby to be born right through the middle. Unfortunately, no one remembers exactly how they were made. Imagine what kinds of information humans have lost along the way. We don't even remember things we invented a couple hundred years ago.