I drank, grew flushed, and paranoid about the hunters and the guns hanging by the hutch door. I went out and looked at the stars. They were so many of them, but I could not remember what any of them were. 

This time we left before dawn. But I was not there to see the beautiful animal dash through the thickets and the snow and tumble as it was hit by lead. I did not hear the dogs run after it, yelping and cawing at blood. I did not see the second bullet silence the powerful, luckless beauty.  

Roman shot the lynx. That night when I returned hungry to the cabin he pulled out a black plastic satchel and poured it out. The fur slumped out onto the floor. "Look. Here it is. We killed it for you." 

The dogs were happy outside, chewing the lynx's slender bones and tussling over its entrails and organs. It had been skinned but for the head. It had cotton stuffing for eyes. I picked it up by the neck and shook it. It was so soft. My fingers felt its bony nerves and the shake of its skull inside. I wanted to drop it. It had been alive.