Sunday, April 6, 2008


(Continued from last post)

Terrified, she mooed as loudly as she could. Bessie knew the unspoken rule about the Giants: Never, under any circumstances, give them any indication that you were real. Ever. Fear ensured that the rule never be broken, but Bessie had had no real desire to let the Giants in on their secret anyway. They weren’t the kindest creatures, they smelled awful and their voices hurt her ears. Why give them any reason to spend MORE time with her? As far as she knew, this rule had always been in place, never broken.

Until tonight. There was a bull calf suckling, and she couldn’t and wouldn’t let him stop, and Fred looked like he was dying, but she couldn’t go to him. Even if she could, there was nothing she could do for him. Alerting the Giants was really her only alternative if she didn’t want to watch Fred die. And she didn’t want to watch Fred die.

Bessie stared at the clock on the stove. Even though she couldn’t understand what the glowing things meant, exactly, she knew that it would only be a short time until the redheaded Giant let the dogs out and made the coffee. She mooed more loudly than before, non-stop, hoping that she could at least wake the dogs. Nothing. Listening as her last moo bounced around the kitchen, it was apparent she couldn’t be heard. And looking at Fred, it might be too late. He was on his side now, face ashen, breathing rapid, and eyes twitching. Huge porcelain tears rolled down Bessie’s cheeks.

The evening’s excitement and trauma had all been too much for her. She closed her eyes, bowed her head and sobbed uncontrollably. What should have been the happiest moment in her life was the saddest. Even hurting beyond belief, shattered emotionally, bone china weary, her mind raced with the possibilities of what could have gone differently, how she could have responded to Fred’s question, how she shouldn’t have helped him onto the bowl, all the “what ifs”. Then she began to grow angry with Fred, thinking he was so big and tough, going up the side of that bowl, mad that he even took her request seriously! He KNEW she didn’t like apples! He just wanted to show off! This was all his fault!

It was no use. The excuses, the anger, the despair – all drained her so. She needed to give everything she had to the calf right now. He had just finished eating and had folded himself up beneath her. She took the opportunity to step around him and check on Fred. Standing over him, Bessie began to softly sing Fred’s favorite song, “Old MacDonald”. She watched as his breathing slowed and his eyes stopped twitching. She sang every verse she knew as his sides resumed a normal rhythm. Then she went back to her calf, gently nudged and pushed him till he was near Fred, and lay down next to the both of them, giving them both the warmth and comfort they needed, allowing herself to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

(who knows?)


imbeingheldhostage said...

"Bone china weary" that's the best-- and "Old Macdonald"? Where do you come up with this stuff??? Fun, funny blog.

k said...

Thanks for not killing off Fred - yet??????

Flea said...

You're welcome. :) I'm not sure what will happen next. I'm just writing a section each day. I'll most likely kill him in the morning. :D

Anonymous said...

I am actually tearing up over this. Criminy. You're quite the tale spinner, Flea. Should I say, "tail" spinner? You MUST come back to this. You can't leave us hanging like that!!