Like most everyone else, I was following the ongoing search for Audrey in the articles that Ms. Murrow wrote for the Daily Planet newspaper. The drama was so captivating; one could not help but root for Audrey. Her story was now more than just an amusing anecdote to e-mail to your friends. There was something universal in her struggle to remain free, something that touched each of us. But I could see the writing on the wall. It did not bode well for Audrey. With all the attention being focused on the story, and with each new day that Audrey remained free, the hunt grew larger. The Wildlife Department was looking foolish, so they had to end it. They wanted the story dead. In the meantime, I began making inquiries.
Oh, yes, we were kept well-informed regarding the Audrey caper as it progressed. I was in touch with Kasey and the folks at Daisy Dream through daily phone calls. However, my youngest daughter, Elspeth, was particularly caught up in the story as told by that Daily Planet reporter, who seemed intent on turning Audrey into some kind of folk hero. Elspeth insisted on reading every news report out loud at the dinner table. And the way Roy, her horse, was regularly sticking his head in through the kitchen window each evening, you’d think he was trying to catch the latest information about Audrey too. I’m joking, of course, but on several occasions I did find that a bunch of animals had gathered beside Roy near the window, something that I’d not seen before or since. Strange days: must have been that full moon.
I would say that by the end of the week the phone was ringing nonstop. There were requests for interviews and visits to the farm from television stations all across the globe. I said no, of course. It would have been too disruptive.
With more officers assigned to the task, my supervisor was certain that the cow, uh, that is to say Audrey, as Miss Murrow insisted I refer to her by name, would be cornered and captured within the fifth day. This, as it turned out, was not the case.
Whereas earlier, when I would follow cow tracks that suddenly stopped without explanation, we were now encountering another curious set of circumstances. Not to say that we didn’t still find cow tracks. Indeed, we found an abundance of cow tracks. It’s just that the cow tracks we found did not stop … ever. In fact, whenever we followed cow tracks along a trail that hit a fork, we would discover that those cow tracks continued in both directions, as if, um … as if Audrey had suddenly split into two cows. And when we divided up officers so we could follow both sets of tracks, we would discover upon reaching another fork that the tracks had divided yet again. Many of the trails we followed ended up looping in on themselves. We were quite literally walking in circles.
So whaddaya know, Bobby Joe? Ol’ Humph ain’t the Dumb Dora I took him for after all. See, a half dozen wildlife officers were added to the mix, but they were still no closer to putting the net on that half-ton runaway. It was loony tunes, a joke and a half, I tell ya! Audrey was playing with those fellas like they were toddlers. Now you see her, now you don’t. Did she go this way or that way, or maybe she’s standing right behind you! If I was a betting gal, and I most soitenly am, I’d have said to put your money on that heavyweight heifer. Audrey’s peekaboo strategy was beating the odds. She was outwitting and outlasting each and every one of them forest coppers.
Okay, fine, I’ll tell you what I know. Boris the Skunk, he approached me three days after word spread about this cow’s arrival. He said, “Please, Lucille. I’d like your professional opinion on a particular matter.” Okay, fine. I’m down with that. I’m not like all those other folk in this forest who stick up their noses at Boris, who find him repulsive, or who say he doesn’t know his place. Who he is, what he does, blah, blah, blah, none of that is of any interest to me. You like him, you hate him—okay, fine, whatever. I could care less. You hear what I’m saying?
But he and I have history. Boris the Skunk once used his smelly “power of persuasion” on my behalf when a pack of wolves started making advances. So frankly, Boris is someone I was indebted to. You do hear what I’m saying, right?
So I followed Boris, and he took me to a spot along a deer trail where there was a muddy indent of a footprint. I’d never seen one like that before. It kind of reminded me of a pair of lips I saw on a two-legger who was rowing past my dam last summer. Whatever. “Is that from the stranger?” I asked. Boris nodded. Then he looked at me. “Do you think you could make me a stamp of that, Lucille?” He pulled a piece of wood out from under a nearby fern that he must have stashed earlier. Okay, fine, shouldn’t be too hard. I figured an hour’s work tops. After all, we’re only talking about an oversized pair of lips. I gave him a nod and I added a toothy grin. I said, “A favor for a favor, Boris.” Then I got to carving.
Lucille is a master carver. I respect her work, and to judge the quality, you need only consider how long the two-leggers chased the phantom cow around the forest.… (sigh) I admit it was a lot of effort on my part, inventing a record of where Audrey might have been roaming. But that’s alright. Old Boris doesn’t sleep as well as he used to. I had time.
Now, the two-leggers were one thing; Claudette was another. I heard her screeches and growls echo through the woods that fifth night. I feared the worst for Audrey, but when I checked on her, I was relieved to see she was fine, although shaken. The next morning, I discovered five or six long whiskers on the ground by the barn entrance. And no sign of Claudette, neither that day nor the day after. My, my, my, poor Claudette. It would seem that her first encounter with a vicious Charolais didn’t go as well as she hoped. Claudette was licking her wounds. But I knew she’d be back. And angry.
One morning we went down to the meadow to pay a social call on Audrey, but that girl didn’t look too good. I’d say she was as white as a ghost, but that was her natural self already. Audrey was spooked, and as it so happens, I was too, on account of some horrible dreams I had the night before. There was a monster growling and screeching, and I was cornered, and Mama wasn’t around to rescue me, and when I awoke, I just knew positively for sure that this time I had been emotionally scarred by my vivid and overactive imagination. Oh yeah! Audrey and I ate breakfast in silence that day. She was jumpy. She kept looking over her shoulder as if she might get attacked by my dream monster!
How my emotions swung like a pendulum during my time in the forest—from the euphoria of escape to hopeless despair, then to happy optimism and back to unsettling fear. This was not the me that I knew and depended on. I was never so changeable, so erratic back at Bittersweet Farm. Perhaps I was a dreamer, but at my core, I was solid.
The truth was that after my midnight encounter with the velvet-voiced beast, I was quite simply unnerved. I was afraid of my own shadow. I began to have doubts about Yvonne of Bavaria’s existence. Imagine! She was my guiding light, my hope and trust that there was a future for me in the woods.
How I envied Doris with her mother. I watched how June always kept a protective eye on her, but a cautious one on me. Where was my mother? Why was I orphaned? Fear was sapping my resolve. Toughen up, I would tell myself. Thicken your hide, Audrey. So I did, or at least I tried. I reminded myself of what there was to be grateful for. That I was still alive, still surviving. That I had a roof over my head and food enough to eat. That I had Doris and her family, and even if they weren’t my family, I was allowed their company and perhaps, in time …
After three more days of being led on a wild cow chase, several things arose that caused me to reconsider the tactics we were using. First, Torchy’s news reports went national, and that brought in television crews from all over. In general, they were a nuisance, and several more officers had to be brought in to keep them from obstructing our search. However, one network had hired a helicopter to give their viewing audience a sense of scope, as they put it. The reporter in the helicopter claimed to have caught a glimpse of a large white creature in the woods that would certainly have fit Audrey’s description. But where she spotted it was a fair distance away from where we were following cow tracks.
The second thing that was … unusual was that from time to time we would encounter animals and birds that would attack. What I mean is … we were not exactly accosted by wildlife but … there were occasions when twigs or pinecones were … they were dropped on us. I’m not suggesting that these creatures were trying to do us harm, but it did seem as if they were attempting to get our attention.
Finally! It’s about time someone asked our opinion about that Audrey problem. So how did the rest of us forest creatures feel about her living among us? We hated it! When she came into our neighborhood, she brought trouble along with her. We had two-leggers patrolling through the woods all day, every day. You couldn’t step out of a hole or climb down from a tree without wondering if you might get stomped on. Then their flying doohickeys came swooping low over the treetops, terrifying the bird folk, sending everyone scurrying for cover. Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing personal against cows. I don’t care for them, but I don’t wish them any harm, as long as they live where they’re supposed to live and stay away from our neighborhood. Riling up Claudette didn’t do us any favors either. That cow was disruptive to our way of life. We have work to do, you know, and bellies to feed.
Hmm, how should I put this … cows are not like us. They’re different. They have different ways of going about things. They’re grass eaters, for one, and although I, personally, find that thought repulsive, maybe someone else wouldn’t mind so much. But please, the whole cud chewing thing? That’s just very, very off-putting. And I don’t think I’m being out of line saying that, right? If one of my children was invited over to a cow’s place to eat—I mean, to, you know, re-eat? Uh-uh, no way, that isn’t going to happen on my watch.
Really now, we’re expected to be tolerant, I know; we’re expected to be understanding. But what about them? How come they can’t make a little effort to be more like us? Why can’t they eat like us? I’m not saying I would send them all to that Abbot’s whatever to be killed, but then again, we only have Audrey’s word on that, right? Is there really such a place? She could have been making it all up, to get our sympathy. She’s a cow! She’s different! Lying might be in her nature. We didn’t know what was going on in her head. We didn’t know if she had some, you know, ulterior motive. Maybe she’d done something bad to the two-leggers, you know?
I’m just saying, maybe they had good reason to catch her. Maybe she was dangerous. Maybe she carried a disease. Who knows what she was capable of doing. Was I supposed to stick my neck out for her? Was I supposed to let her cause trouble in my forest? I’ve met a few two-leggers in my time. They pass through. They look nice enough. I’ve heard they sometimes leave a nut or two lying around. I don’t know why Boris was all about saving Audrey. It was reckless, I say. The smart thing would be to help the two-leggers. There could have been a reward. A nice bunch of free nuts would come in handy, you know? I’m just saying …
They meddled! The Tyrones and the Thelmas and their like. They interfered! Cowards! Collaborators! Yes, you heard me! Old Boris doesn’t mince his words. Audrey came into our home desperate and alone, and we were obligated to help. They turned their backs on her, they colluded, they … My, my, my, how their paws are stained with guilt. (sigh) … It was over. I could no longer help her. I could no longer stamp the trails. Wherever I was, they would warn the two-leggers and bring attention to my whereabouts. I had to rush. I had to constantly hide. Finally, I stumbled. Barely escaped, and left the stamp behind. It was too late to retrieve it.
On the eighth day, I came across a crudely made stamp of a cow’s hoof. It was clear that someone had taken it upon him or herself to obstruct our search in an effort to keep Audrey from capture, or to make the Department look foolish, or perhaps both. What was also now clear was that we were looking in the wrong part of the forest. I studied the maps and discovered a likely location for Audrey to be living, assuming that the helicopter sighting was accurate, and that she was still alive after all this time. Let me add that as a professional Wildlife Enforcement Officer, I find no amusement in childish pranks.
Don’t look at me, sister! I may add a few colorful adjectives to the mix, but I’m a newshound to the bone. I just report the news; I don’t make it myself.
I had failed. I heard the two-leggers talking. They knew where to go now. I had to warn Audrey.
Kasey phoned me at dinnertime, shortly after the search entered its second week. The Wildlife Department had a new plan, he said. He then explained it to me. I didn’t like it. But I agreed to assist in the hope of putting a stop to all the phone calls, and the reporters sneaking onto the property. Kasey said he’d be by with the truck just before dawn the next morning.
Oh, we weren’t scared. We knew exactly what the truck was all about, plain and simple. Since the day after Audrey left, the whole farm was following the events. Eddie taught himself to fetch the paper from the mailbox at the end of the drive each afternoon, and then drop it down at Little Girl Elspeth’s feet just as she got off the school bus.
Poor Eddie was so desperate to know Audrey was alright, so eager to learn if she had eluded those hunters another day. But then, so were we all. A lot of the animals couldn’t even wait for Roy to make the rounds. Those who had the freedom to move about, or were able to convince Buster to open their gates, would head over to Farmer’s house and stand under the kitchen window to hear the latest. We were all rooting for her, even Norma; even Max, I suspect. So when Farmer came and got me and Agnes that morning and loaded us up on the truck, we knew why we were being taken—okay, maybe Agnes was a bit confused—but I knew, and I was not happy about being used as an accomplice in Audrey’s capture.
Nasty creature, Charolais. Nasty and vicious. Ruined my face. Talked of friendly meetings, and then ruined my face! Vicious creature. But still stupid. Still prey. Hunting her would be a pleasure. No more caution. No more waiting. Stupid Charolais was going to be my dinner. And after I took her down, I was going to eat her slow.
When I look back, I can say that I made the best of things. I can say that I even found moments of small joy. I spent my days with Doris and her family, learning more and more about the forest and observing the creatures that made their life under its leafy canopy. If I stopped to listen, I could hear a symphony of sounds around me. From above, there were warbles, twitters and love songs. From the pond, there were croaks, peeps and trills. From the burrows and brambles, there were chitters, squeaks and hisses.
All these languages were new and unfamiliar, but my ears grew accustomed, and quickly I could make out a word here or phrase there. I discovered how truly universal our conversations are. “Let us look for food together.” “Did you see what the so-and-sos built their nest with?” “How I love a sunny afternoon.”
The desire to jump right in and add my thoughts to these easy, breezy exchanges was hard to resist. But I continued to be polite, as Mother had raised me to be, and I attempted a hello only if I deemed it safe. I cannot say that my greetings were returned in kind. I suppose I was still viewed suspiciously, as a stranger. Some scurried away in fear while others, I felt, were outright hostile to my advances. I kept reminding myself, in time they will see that I mean no one any harm. In time.
And in the evenings, I would help put Doris to bed, telling her gentle stories to ease her into sleep. But when her mother gave me a curt nod, I would return to the meadow on my own. Back into the darkness of the stuffy, broken barn, remembering to always push the door closed and lie against it, to prevent any more attempts at entry by unwelcome guests. My nights were not pleasant, and I courted sleep by imagining a bigger barn full of all the cows I had known and cared about, eavesdropping on their gossip and complaints and jokes until sleep finally overtook me. But on the eighth day, on a rare occasion when I was in the meadow all by myself, I was met by a creature that up until then I had not seen.
She did not back away when I approached. For an animal like old Boris, much used to seeing expressions of revulsion, it was both a surprise and a pleasure to be greeted with genuine civility. I introduced myself. She responded accordingly. “It’s a lovely day,” she said. “Yes, it is,” I agreed. “I heard a birdsong this morning,” she offered. “One that I had not noticed before. A series of sharp whistles—peerda, peerda, peerda. Very pretty. Do you know who it belongs to?” “Sadly, I do not,” I replied.
We continued on in this fashion, turning those few short moments into a waking dream. Old-time feelings washing over me like floodwater. I was engaged in polite conversation, as I had always wished for and imagined: me and a young lady discussing the simple details of a summer day, comparing observations, laughing at the vagaries of forest society. My, my, my, I could have, at any moment, wept tears. Oh, how cruel to taste the happiness I had longed for my whole life, yet knowing that I must end it. I had to. Time was of the essence. “They are coming for you, dear lady.”
My sudden shift in tone startled her. “Who are coming for me?” she asked. “The two-leggers,” I explained. “The predators. I’ve tried my best to keep them at bay. I’ve used all the tricks that I have at my meagre disposal, but I fear I have failed you.” Her face sagged, but she did not crumple. I suspect she had experienced similar news in the past. “You say that you’ve been protecting me?” “Yes,” I replied, “from your first night in the forest, when I spied you alone in despair.” I went on to explain all my ruses. She nodded slowly; for a moment, she was lost among thoughts no doubt turbulent.
But then her eyes softened, and she looked at me—she looked at me and smiled. “Thank you, Boris. Thank you for allowing me these days of freedom. Thank you for granting me days of life that I would never have had otherwise. Thank you.” And this time I did weep. How could I not? This child, this beautiful child … yes … I wept. She came over to me, leaned down and nuzzled my fur. “It’s alright,” she whispered. “It’s alright, Boris. It’s over. I’ll prepare myself to meet them.”
What? Surrender? “No!” I shouted. “What I mean is, no, that’s not what I—I mean, you must get away, not give up. I have contacts. Trustworthy, as far as such creatures go. I will ask them to help. Yes! They will smuggle you out!”
“Smuggle me out? But to where?” I asked him. “Where else is there for me to hide?” Boris was insistent that I not lose hope. “This forest is vast, young lady. It stretches beyond the two-leggers’ roads. You’ll see. But getting away will be difficult if they are looking for you. It must be done under cover of darkness. There are professionals who can guide you. I’ll arrange for them to escort you this very night. Be ready. Please, be safe.” And then Boris, who had been my protector all along, who nobly and secretly kept me safe for no other reason than out of the decency of his dear, dear heart; that generous yet ferocious soul took his leave as humbly as he had come to me.
I stood alone in the meadow, wondering what was to happen next. Could I continue on to someplace else, a place without a clearing or barn or Doris and her family? How could I carry on without any of these things? How could I possibly make a home elsewhere?
Then I looked at the house at the far end of the meadow, collapsed and rotten, hollow and sad, and I laughed at my foolishness. I had no home. I was only pretending this was a home, the way Little Girl Elspeth served imaginary tea to her dolls when she was smaller. Homestead Meadow was not Bittersweet Farm. My nights were spent in a cage, not a barn; and they were populated, not with real friends and family, but only with memories of them. And Doris, as much as I had grown to love her like a sister, could not be my sister if my presence might lead to her harm. I had to move on. I had to believe that there was a home for me somewhere out there.
Evening was approaching. I headed into the woods. I needed to tuck Doris in and say my good-byes, and then wait for Boris’s friends.
Righty-right, Boris and us go way back. Can’t get into the particulars, mind you, because—and stop me if I get too technical—one is beholden to the statutes of limits regarding laws upheld in certain places and jurisdictions. Ipso facto, any discussion might be deemed as a confession of sorts. So you might say we’d be self-incriminating ourselves, if you follow my train of thought. Ask Stan if I’m correct in my summation.
He most certainly is, my Oliver.
Righty-right, there you go. But to the point: if something needs to be smuggled in or smuggled out, Stan and me, we’re the ones to get the job done. As to the job in question, we were to pick up a “package” at the far end of Homestead Meadow a couple of owl hoots past midnight.
Audrey gave me an extra-long story time that night, full of funny bits involving Eddie, who is a creature called a dog but sounds awfully like a wolf, and Buster, who I don’t even know what he is. And there’s this bird called a rooster, who can’t fly but has to holler every dawn, which I would personally find too stressful because a fawn needs her mornings quiet. Oh yeah! I loved Audrey’s stories. That girl could spin a tale like no one else. And after she said “happily ever after,” then we both recited the poem she made up just for me.
My forest bed is veiled and soft
It keeps me safe, it keeps me sound
I close my eyes and gently sleep
Toward my dreams I now am bound
I was hard on the girl. I suppose I was afeared to let her into my heart, in case I might make reckless decisions. In the forest, you only get yourself but one chance. But on that evenin’, after she tucked Doris in, I took her aside. I told Audrey that I wished her luck and happiness on her long journey. I told her she was a good girl and that her Mama would done be proud to have such a kind and courageous daughter. Weren’t much to say, but I felt it was somethin’ important for her to hear.
There was an old abandoned farmstead deep in the forest that I discovered in some old maps we had on file back at the office. It belonged to the Doolittle clan, an early pioneer family. Standard tracking methods were getting us nowhere in this hunt. What was required was to get into the head of a cow, to think how a cow thinks, and figure how she might cope in her new environment. That is what led me to the conclusion that the old farm was where I’d find Audrey. Whatever cleared fields there were had likely grown over decades ago, but the general layout of the farm might be familiar to a domestic bovine. To make it irresistible for Audrey, I decided to plant some decoys to lure her in. And then, like a duck hunter waiting in a blind, I would set up a position on the edge of the clearing, ready to take her down just past dawn.
Not in my nature to hunt in daylight. Make an exception for stupid Charolais. Can’t take her when she’s in her barn-cave. Wait for her to come out. Wait silently at the meadow edge. Wait for morning to break. Then I take Charolais down.
The Audrey escapades were reaching the end, see. Ol’ Humph grew all steely-eyed and determined, the hunters were closing in, and the curtains were about to come down on this show. If that brave bovine had another ace up her sleeve, this would have been the time to play it. Sure, I wanted the story to continue. I got a job to do, but then, I suppose, so does Ol’ Humph. But had I a minute alone with the lady, I’d have told her to scram, to beat it, to hit the road.
I sat in the barn half the night waiting for my escorts to arrive. My senses were so sharp that I was alert to every sound, sight and smell that a forest offered. Hour upon hour, my range broadened: the owl hoots, the cricket chirps in the meadow, the frog choruses from the nearby pond, the distant howls. Breezes prodded tree branches and grasses, making their shadows dance and bow. Breezes also brought the heavier scents of moss and mushroom that I ignored during the day, in favor of the flower perfumes that I prefer. But now the flowers were asleep and unconcerned. So I waited and waited, yet did not tire. How surprised I was to hear the scraping and whispers of those two fellows, who had somehow managed to enter the barn undetected, despite my vigilant attention.
Well, of course she didn’t hear us slip in. We’re grade-A, top-notch professionals, we are, and as such, me and Stan possess the qualities of stealth and cunning that allow for sneaky movement. It would hardly do, to be picked off by “the package” prior to arriving at the rendezvous. Ask Stan if I’m correct in my synopsis.
He most certainly is, my Oliver.
Righty-right, then. So, upon meeting “the package” at the aforementioned place as specified by our old and dear friend, Boris, a.k.a. “The Skunk,” we were immediately smacked in the face by two details. Details that, as pertaining to the successful hush-hush transportation of goods, would be significant problems.
She was huge and white!
Indeed she was, indeed she was. Righty-right, then, we got ourselves a smuggling liability. Can’t perform any easy alterations in the size department, if you follow me. But as pertaining to the bright color adorning “the package,” making undetected travel difficult if not impossible, me and Stan reached into our wily bag of craftiness and came up with an inspired plan for camouflage that did the trick, if I do say so myself.
We covered her in mud, we did!
Always to the point, my esteemed colleague Stan, always to the blunt point. But yes, indeed, we plastered “the package” in a covering of moist dirt attained from the bank of the nearby pond. Our scheduled time of departure was appreciably set back, as you can imagine, on account of the sizeable “canvas” we were working with. To take advantage of whatever darkness was still available, we needed to move fast if we were to reach the far side of the forest before dawn.
They wanted me to bushwhack through the forest in near total darkness, and they wanted me to do so at a hurried pace. I couldn’t see as well as they could, and I was neither small enough nor agile enough to keep up. “Stop,” I finally said. “This will not do. At this rate, I will break a leg. Find me another route.” My escorts were not pleased with my demand, but even they could see that it was reasonable. There was a wide path marked by two bumpy furrows that led away from the meadow. I had been warned by Doris’s family to never walk along it. After some debate between Oliver and Stan, we shifted our escape route to that path, even though it was not as safe.
The first rule of smuggling is to avoid all routes that offer two-leggers ample access to your personage. To put it another way, if they can see you, they can catch you. As such, the route we were forced to use, which at one time served to connect the Homestead Meadow to the more often used two-legger road, was a big, red-flag no-no.
But righty-right, “the package” made her argument, and the sun was itching to rise, so I said to my Stan, “Stan,” I said, “our options are few and fraught with challenges; we are tormented by conditions undeserved. The forbidden two-legger road, on this occasion, offers our only salvation. But let us take comfort in the fact that this thoroughfare is long past its practical days, and the likelihood of anyone using it is near to nil.” That is what I said. Ask Stan if I am correct in my citation.
He most certainly is, my Oliver, word for word.
So, righty-right, off we go, traipsing down the long-abandoned, weed-infested, barely-a-shadow-of-its-former-self two-legger road, and you’ll never guess what happened. But take a guess anyway, just for a bit of fun.
Phew, what a day that was. I went over to Bittersweet Farm with Red Bessie around four-thirty in the morning. It was dark and cold, and I was in no mood to be dealing with any crazy animals, don’t you know. Glenn Parker was already out there in the open area beside the cowshed with two of them sneaky creatures and his sheepdog. Glenn isn’t talking to me much, on account of the whole Audrey thing, but them two cows were calm and cooperative, not dancing or anything, and that’s all that mattered to me. We loaded them up the ramp onto Red Bessie, Glenn gets into the passenger seat, and we head off.
It was much easier using the abandoned road. I still had to be careful because the furrows were uneven and rocky, requiring me to be sure of each step before pressing down. But as dawn approached, the dark lifted slowly until I could safely mark the route. Of course, no matter how fast I went, I was never fast enough for my escorts, who grumbled out loud almost continuously, only stopping to shush me, who wasn’t saying a peep. We were very close to reaching the main two-legger road when suddenly both my escorts stopped talking, stood up on their hind legs and shushed me again with more urgency. They had heard something, and a moment later, I heard it too.
So have you had yourself a little guess yet? Have you figured out what happened to me and dear Stan and “the package,” who insisted we take the easier route? I’ll give you a little hint. The second rule of smuggling is that if anything, even something a whisker’s breadth away from impossible, has the possibility of happening, then more than likely it will happen. Keeping this in mind, what do you think we could possibly have come across, while going our merry little way along an all-but-forgotten, nothing-to-have-a-worry-about, abandoned two-legger road?
We saw a truck, we did!
Took the words right out of my mouth.
I had my map out because I was instructed by the Wildlife Enforcement Officer to take the cows to some long-forgotten field somewhere in the middle of the forest, and the only way to get there was by an unmarked service road. Forty-five minutes of driving and we’re getting close. It’s lighter outside but still not daylight, so we nearly miss the turn. But Glenn thinks he sees it; he points and shouts. I take a sharp right, and jumpin’ June bugs, I plow Red Bessie along the bumpiest road imaginable. Barely a half second in and my bouncing headlights catch two raccoons frantically pushing what looks like a giant black boulder off to the side. Now, other people might find that weird, but after what I’ve seen, nothing really surprises me anymore.
Righty-right, we hear a noise, and it doesn’t sound too friendly. Me and Stan, professional smugglers that we are, break into evasive maneuvers. I turn to “the package” and I shout, “Duck!”
Sadly, my unfortunate choice of words confuses both “the package” and Stan, who immediately begins to look for the waterfowl in question. I try again, yelling, “Hide!” and pushing “the package” off to the edge. Because with only a second to spare, a hideously large and loud vehicle was coming barreling down the never-ever-used road and straight at us, promising extensive damage to our persons upon impact. I shout out for a third time, returning to the very fitting verb “Duck!” yet again. This time, my partner Stan takes my point, and following my example, throws himself to the ground, allowing the truck to pass over our terrified and wobbly but still-in-one-piece bodies.
I knew the sound of that truck as soon as it came into earshot. You don’t quickly forget the contraption meant to take you to your demise. After it rocked and bounced past us, snorting and belching like some angry bull, I lifted my head, and to my horror, saw Madge and Agnes hanging on for dear life in the back. It was both alarming and confusing. Why were they in the Abbot’s War truck? They were milk cows, and there was no reason to take them … unless it was some kind of punishment, to teach the other animals a lesson perhaps because … because of me.
Were they being punished because I escaped? But why take them to the meadow? Is that what they did with milk cows? Did their lives end there instead of at Abbot’s War? None of it made any sense. But my eyes met Madge’s, and they looked so scared. I took a step back onto the road, and she started to bellow. They drove off toward the meadow, and soon she was too far away for me to hear what she was saying. But it couldn’t have been good. I was frantic. Meanwhile, my escorts insisted we continue across the road up ahead and carry on to the other side of the forest. But what about Madge and Agnes? I couldn’t just abandon my friends in their time of need, especially if their trouble was my fault.
I saw her. It was Audrey; I was sure of it. I recognized her dear face and soft eyes. But her hide was so blackened and cracked, I thought perhaps she was ill. Then she got up and moved toward the truck, so I bellowed a warning. As she receded behind us, I yelled, “Stay away, Audrey! It’s a trap! Stay far away!” In moments, we were out of view. I didn’t know if she had heard me, but I wished so deeply that she had.
Righty-right then, the two-legger vehicle was out of sight, out of mind. I checked my limbs—all accounted for—and Stan’s self-appraisal reached the same conclusion.
Up on our feet, we’re breathing fine, life is good, time to get back to work. Our destination is but a few dozen steps away. We need only deliver “the package” across the smooth road yonder, point her in the right direction, and our contractual obligations with dear and old friend Boris, a.k.a. “The Skunk,” is a foregone conclusion.
So take a small stab of speculation at what happened next. How do you think “the package” rewarded all our hard labor? Care to have a go?
She done run back to the meadow, she did!
It’s enough to make a grown raccoon cry.
I galloped back toward the meadow, pushing and exerting every muscle in my body, as I imagine Roy might have done in his younger days. I was reckless in my pursuit of that truck, crossing the same demanding terrain I had cautiously tread earlier, but now at quadruple the speed. I didn’t care. I just knew I had to get there. I wasn’t even sure what I would do when I did.
Waited behind her barn-cave since sunrise. Came ready to hunt and kill. Heard two-leggers walking nearby in the forest. Didn’t care. Only cared about stupid, vicious Charolais. So quiet in her barn-cave. No fear-smell this time. Not any smell. Began to wonder if Charolais was there. But I knew she was. She was always there, stupid, vicious creature. Heard two-legger vehicle coming into meadow. Didn’t care. Not interested in two-leggers. Only interested in Charolais. Only interested in ripping her to shreds and teaching her a lesson.
Why sure, I could tell you what happened next, but for a more vivid account of the blow-by-blow action, I suggest you read my story in the next day’s paper.
AUDREY’S QUEST FOR FREEDOM ENDS IN MAYHEM
Special to the Daily Planet
This infamous day began well before daylight, dear readers. While the stars still twinkled in the bruised, purple sky, yours truly met up once again with tall, rugged Officer Humphrey. We stood along a lonely stretch of highway bordering the vast forest that one brave and wily cow named Audrey has called sanctuary for over a week. Steam curled up from the cups of coffee that Officer Humphrey and I drank in silence; a solemn moment before what was expected to be the final chapter in our heroine’s story.
With his square jaw firmly set, Officer Humphrey slung the rifle over his broad shoulder, flicked on his trusty flashlight and led this reporter through a tangle of trees and rough terrain toward a concealed location. As we entered, the noisy woods went eerily still. I felt as if all eyes were upon us, bird and animal alike, watching our furtive movements and waiting for events to play out.
Clean-shaven Officer Humphrey and I huddled close together in our small, secreted roost. We looked out onto an open meadow that, if things went according to plan, would serve as the stage for this drama.
Surely as night turns to day, the dawn broke and night turned to day. At 5:23, as per schedule, we heard the loud huff and puff of Red Bessie, the truck that many of you readers will remember as the one assigned to deliver our heroine to her death. On this cool, early summer morning, it was being driven by none other than Mr. Kasey Krumpfelt, the same hapless half-wit who lay hiding beneath Red Bessie, cowardly avoiding the overtures of a single crow, while Audrey made her escape. But this time, the truck was making a different delivery, bringing two milk cows from Bittersweet Farm to serve as lures to reel Audrey in.
It lurched to a stop in the middle of the meadow. Krumpfelt, along with Glenn Parker, the owner of the farm where Audrey grew up, left the truck and began unloading the cows. Whereas earlier, the cows were bellowing from what one might only imagine was fear, now they stood silent. Meanwhile, beside me, handsome Officer Humphrey furrowed his thick eyebrows in concentration. Something was afoot. Cool as a cucumber, he lifted his rifle and planted it firmly in the crook of his shoulder. Then I heard what he heard. A thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump as quick as my own excited heartbeat, but growing louder and louder. Something was coming, and coming fast.
It was Audrey! She rushed toward her fellow cows with the determination of a racehorse, dried mud breaking off her like the shell from a newborn bird. She came with fury, like a bullet, like a steam engine. Nothing was going to stop her, certainly not Kasey Krumpfelt, whose frantically waving arms were the last things I saw before he was bowled over. To my right, I heard the faint click of the cocked hammer. Officer Humphrey was taking aim. His arm was steady. His breath was measured.
Dear readers, I heard the shot. It echoed through the trees, sending birds scattering in all directions. But dear readers, I also saw, seemingly from out of nowhere, the powerful, muscular body of a cougar leap into the air, claws out and sharp teeth exposed, and land on our poor heroine’s back, pulling her down hard into the long, wild grass. I feared, dear readers, that Audrey was no more.