A continuing series of interviews of animal characters in my “Children of the Light Trilogy” in honor of National Pet Month the month of May.
Blossom poked her head through the door Penelope had left wide open. “Is she gone?”
“Yes.” I rubbed my forehead. “Are you ready for your interview?”
“I suppose, but there really isn’t much to say,” she said. “You killed me way too soon.”
“Uh, I am sorry about that.”
“More than one person was rather upset at my demise.” Her voice, a rich, creamy contrast to Penelope’s, was welcoming, even if it was laced with sadness.
“Yes, I know I readers were upset, although I prefer to think of it as tugging at heartstrings. Nonetheless, their sadness at your leaving was a great testament to your acting in the few pages you do appear.” I stretched my smile from ear to ear.
The words worked their magic, and the cow softened. She mooed, then stepped into the kitchen, twisting her head sideaways to clear her horns of the glass in my back door, her back feet on the porch and her front feet muddying my floor.
I pointed. “Seems as if you’ve been in the bog yet again.”
She sighed. “Well, yes, I am like a tortured ghost stuck in a never ending reenactment.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Well, you could put me in another book.”
“Er, that’s not possible. You are dead.”
“Yes, ’tis true. You know, if any of us needed to go, it was that annoying duck.”
“Goose. Penelope is a goose.”
“Goose smoose. Why did you kill me first?”
This was suppose to be an interview, not a question and answer session. “Really, Blossom, it all had to do with timing. I needed a reason for Mary to ask Amon for her job back.”
“Well, more than one reader was upset by my death.”
“I believe you have made that quite clear, so let’s move on. What was your favorite scene?”
“My dear, I wasn’t in enough to choose from.”
The blank computer screen whitened. This was going no better than my interview with Penelope.
“Alright,” I said, “how about telling us who your favorite character was?”
“I didn’t like any of them.”
“Annie penned me up in the barn. Martha let me out. That goose was always yapping, and Miss Mary later shot me. Perhaps, you could put me in a different story?”
“Like I said, that’s not possible. How about you tell us a little bit about red milking devons? I understand you were once the most common cattle in the colonies.”
“But now, there are only about 100 of you in existence. I understand most of those are in Williamsburg, Virginia, in their rare breeds program.”
“There are only 99 of them in existence. One of us is now gone, remember?”
“Well, that number is not arbitrary.”
“No, but my death must be. I cannot understand for the life of me why you will not put me in another story.”
“So, no favorite character. No favorite scene.” I stared at the blank screen. “Perhaps you could tell us what you enjoyed doing while off stage?”
“Clover. I enjoyed eating clover.”
“You did not send the others to the bog.”
“They don’t enjoy eating clover.”
“Well, perhaps I won’t either in the next book you put me.”
My palm flew upward. “There won’t be another book for you, Blossom.”
“Are you not writing a novel set in the 1690s?”
“And I hear you have a pig.”
“Only for a short time.”
“Killed him, too?”
“What is it with you and killing animals? First me, then Penelope.”
“The pig is not a pet. And I think we are finished. You are free to go.”
“You’re the boss.”
She backed out, caring little about her horns which did, though, fortunately clear my doorway without mishap.
I lifted my fingers to the keys and typed.
Blossom was a red milking devon. She was born. She liked sweet clover. And she died.
I clicked the “x” and saved my document.
“Next!” I yelled.
Only then did I remember the muddy floor.