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

I have lived on this floating rock called Pag for centuries. My wool smells of sage, rosemary, salt, and the bura wind off Velebit. I did not come from space. I am not a concept. I am not a campaign. I am not a metaphor.

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

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 alone will not save me.

People will.