My brother was lucky to escape with torn sleeves
It is Christmas Eve 1983. I am 19 years old. I am standing at the kitchen table pushing the stuffing into the turkey. My 16-year-old brother Gerry comes into the room and stands nearby.
We are all busy trying to get the jobs done, on the farm and in the house, before the holiday season so I only give him a half-glance.
In this moment, I see that he seems to be shirtless and can remember half-thinking "gosh, he's hot in himself".
After a few seconds, my mind kicks into gear.
Its the middle of winter.
So I look again.
I realise that he's not totally unclothed on top. There are actually torn bands of cloth around both arms.
Then I also see that there are cuts on his back; several series of scrape lines, what I imagine the paw marks of a large predator would look like.