I hadn’t seen my skeet-shooting pal for some days. “I missed you last Sunday,” he said. “Why weren’t you out for some skeet?” “Oh, I wasn’t in town,” I told him. “I was hunting mountain sheep.” “In February? What kind, for the love of Mike?” “Sardinian mouflon.” “Mouflon? Never heard of them!” Then my pal paused, eyeing me suspiciously. “Isn’t Sardinia an island in the Mediterranean Sea?” “Yes, near Italy.” “And you——” “I got a mouflon. The guy …