Written for Crimson’s Creative Challenge.
Here’s where Crispina’s image took me.
Philomena had had it.
First, Dolly ate the good hay …. the fluffy pile in the corner that Philomena had been eyeing all morning. Then Dolly had the absolute nerve to stand directly behind her, breathing loudly, as if oxygen was free to every Tom, Dick, and Harry.
And now? NOW? The bucket …. the glorious black bucket containing the most delicious apple morsels dangling tantalizingly on the other side of the gate …. was approximately four inches out of reach. Four. Inches.
Philomena stared directly into the soul of whoever was holding that camera. You see this? You see what I’m dealing with? Her gaze said everything the absence of words could not.
Behind her, Dolly blinked serenely, unbothered, as she always was. Dolly had never worried about a bucket in her life.
Philomena had decided: the next person who called sheep “simple animals” was getting headbutted.
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This is “Pet Sounds” by The Beach Boys
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