I am the Pag sheep. Original. Local. I'd dare say the real deal.

I have lived on these rocks for centuries. My wool smells of immortelle, rosemary, salt, and the bura from the majestic, blue gray Velebit in the distance. I did not come from space. I am not a concept. I am not a campaign. I am not a metaphor.

I'm scrawny but tenacious. Some say I turned bare karst into the most famous cheese in the world. I mostly tried to survive, and help my shepherds, the people of Pag, do the same.

I have no connection to other celestial bodies. I don't need stardust in my wool to shine. I have never listened to glam rock. If you're looking for me, I won't be on stage. I'll be grazing, as always.

But I am slowly disappearing.

The numbers are clear: my world is shrinking. Fewer flocks. Fewer hands that know how to shear, milk, and make cheese the way their grandmothers taught them. Fewer watchful eyes and willing feet to look after me and walk with me.

I have Protected Designation of Origin -- what we locally call ZOI. It means the European Union recognizes what the people of Pag have known for hundreds of years: that I am kind of unique.

But paper will not save me.

People will.