It Had to Be Ewe by Leila Allison

-1-

Beezer and Barkevious claim to be brothers. That’s unlikely in the physical sense–Beezer is a British Bulldog and Barkevious is a Scottish Terrier; but nowadays you can be anything you want to be until you try to buy life insurance. Then again, since they are talking Dogs who live in the make-believe realm of Saragun Springs, such a claim remains possible. Regardless, the boys were wandering the realm’s countryside sniffing for rancid stuff to roll in when they saw Conrad the Blackface Ram headed their way.

“Crimony Beez, here comes that odd boy again,” said Barkevious.

“Don’t be critical of the wooly,” said Beezer. ”He’s gone a little mad because there ain’t no girl Sheep in the Springs.”

“You mean Ewes,” said Barkevious.

“I ain’t no feta dispenser you scruffy little bastard…”

“No, talking haggis–Ewes is what they call girl Sheep.”

“I’ll pound you shorter than the Truss era if you say that again!”

The mighty Ram approached and without warning dashed behind Beezer and nudged his butt with his impressive horns. Fortunately they were rolled horns, besides it was just a nudge. (Here it might be interesting to know that Beezer casts Barkervious’ shadow under our little sun Pong and vice versa–a glitch we hope to soon repair.)

“Hey, behave yourself, or I’ll make a mutton curry of ye,” said Beezer.

“Silence Cur! I am the Alpha Ram,” said Conrad, who then darted around and nudged Barkevious closer to Beezer, but he didn’t appear to have his heart in it.

“Now friend,” said Barkevious. “Let’s play nice–maybe we can help you with your social skills.”

Conrad sighed and sat down. “No this isn’t working–I figured if I took charge and reversed my situation life would get better. You see, I’m a herd animal–thought maybe if I switched the premise and herd Dogs, a sense of purpose might arrive. Alas, nature commands I’m to be herded. Now, tell me, who’s ever heard of a herd of one?”

“I commiserate,” said Barkevious. “I am the lone Scottish Terrier in the Springs–but Beezer here is a Manningtree Ox–thus truly a herd of one.”

“Keep smiling, Barky–smile like Andy, Jimmy, Jared and Rolf at middle school meet and greet,” said Beezer, “keep smiling.”

“Tell you what Conrad, old chum,” said Barkevious, ignoring his brother, “let’s go complain to the Boss and get you some company of the female persuasion. Besides, it’s nearing snack time.”

-2-

I considered the ramifications of abruptly switching a story from the third to first person: would it go smoothly or would it make a sound similar to dropping from third gear to first while driving on the freeway? I decided to go from the “third” person, insert a number “two” (as seen above) then swiftly downshift the narrative to “one”–as in the first person.

Anyway, I looked up from my computer and saw the Braw Brothers Baw and Conrad the Ram at my office doorway. All three tried to enter at once, which caused a jam. With a sigh, I rose, went to the doorway and extracted Barkevious from the scrum as though he were a cork; the other two fell into the room. Beezer broke Conrad’s fall. Although it was my action that caused Beezer to flop on the floor, he singled out his brother. “I will make a roll of royal throne paper out of you for that, ye moldy jammy dodger!” he bellowed. Conrad thought that remark was aimed at him and threatened to get tough (well, as tough as a Sheep can get).

It was getting ugly fast, but I am always prepared for the worst because the worst always happens. I set Barkevious on my desk, fetched a sack of Putrid-Pup Dog treats from a drawer along with a feedbag of oats (such items are necessary to have on the ready in Saragun Springs). I strapped the bag on Conrad and used a pencil to spear treats for the boys. (That ended that pencil’s career on my desk. Putrid Pup treats have a stink to them as determined to exist as fish in a Catholic’s kitchen.)

The great thing about Fictional Character animals (FC’s) is their short attention spans. Food always crushes rage, much like scissors cuts paper and paper covers rock and rock breaks scissors.

“Ohhh,” said Barkevious, “Hedgehog road pizza.”

“Weepy septic field here,” said Beezer. “Such subtlety.”

Conrad didn’t add his “appraisal,” which would have been hard to do with a bag tied to his face.

“All right fellas,” I said, returning to my chair. “You boys want to help friend Conrad here find a significant other.”

“No one has *sayingly said that yetly yet, Miss Leila,” said Daisy Kloverleaf, Pygmy Goatess and lead FC in Saragun Springs as she entered the office (unasked for). (*These are examples of Daisyspeak–an adverb heavy language of her own conception–from here similar “outbreaks,” which will not affect the souls of her comments, will be omitted in consideration of the word count budget.)

“How’s that, Daisy?” I asked, feeling one of those headaches gathering between my eyes.

“I’ve been proofingly proofing the text,” said Daisy. “The guys have yet to tell you why they are here– you blew the line.”

(For those of you unacquainted with the realm of Saragun Springs–which is nearly all the human race, we “shoot” our stories like little films that take shape in print at the end.)

“All right,” I said. I poured myself a shot of Maker’s Mark from a jug I had in another drawer. (remember what I said about being prepared for the worst). “Let’s just keep rolling and I will try to remember to fix that in editing.”

“All rightly all right,” said Daisy, with a superior little grin on her earnest Goatly visage, confident that I would forget. She sat down at her own little desk and booted up her computer, as per the stage direction in the script. (Fortunately, for me, she did not notice that she had already been “proofing” on her computer before she sat at her desk. To cover that, let’s say Daisy is occasionally telepathic.)

“So you boys want to hook Conrad up with a Ewe–or is that an? Beats me. Anyway, please no more jokes that cross You as a person or a single Ewe as a Sheepress–those have been fully explored in act one.” I said, fully knowing that none of the three boys could read and that spelling out the difference would be no use. “Just a yes or no will suffice.”

“Aye,” said Conrad.

“He can’t talk with a feedly feed bag on, Miss Leila,” said little Miss Smarty Hooves.

I sighed and typed “I rose and undid the bag and returned to my desk” on my computer.

“Satisfied?” I asked Daisy.

“Hardly Bronte, but it will make a pellet,” she said, glancing up from her screen, that smug little expression blossoming further in her face.

“Aye,” Conrad repeated. Although I was speaking to two individuals of ostensibly Scottish descent and one of English, they were all native to the realm and nowhere else; thus Conrad’s accent was as inaccurate as Scotty’s on Star Trek. The Baw Boys have developed a singular take on the language that is all their own. I view it as a result of too much NetFlix with a dash of old time Loony Toons tossed in.

At this time I noticed a small blue head pop up in the window and back down, out of sight. Three similar heads did the same, but I pretended not to notice. Still, I knew right then that we were being watched by the four billigits: weasel, mothball, pinto and flounder. They had recently quit the boy band they had formed and now served the realm as “word police.” Nobody asked them to do that, but since they’re employees of the Great Realm Wiccan HeXopatha, and have the Saragun Springs’ do what thou wilt sense of Free Will, I have zero control over their activities. They are always seeking offenders to send to sensitivity training.

“The billy-lee-lee billigits are spyingly spying on us,” said Daisy.

“Thank you Daisy. Hah! Now that you said that, it is up to you to explain exactly who the billigits are.” I had hoped she’d crack and mention them, thus relieving me from telling their backstory to readers new to the realm. But as always, my victories are hollow and as meaningless as a crafted celebrity apology.

Daisy then spouted a string of adverbs similar to the sum of profanities spewed by a brothel Parrot on methamphetamine. Her description is available on her blog (“Dear Daisy”); but for here they blew the remainder of our 3000-word budget–so I present the trimmed version:

“…billigits are androgynous winged persons who are eighteen inches long. They are blue skinned and look almost alike save for minor differences in their facial features; for reasons unknown billigits eschew the use of capital letters….”

I counted six-hundred plus adverbs attached to that, but have managed to extract the soul of the thing for your perusal.

Three further swallows of Maker’s Mark placed me in a lazy mood. I had all kinds of plot twists set for the Conrad situation, but decided to go with the Gordian knot device even though there was plenty of room left to do something a bit more imaginative.

“All right, Gordon,” I said…

“Conrad, Miss Leila,” Daisy said, her voice afire with superiorly superior joy.

“Ah yes, Conrad–I have given your matter a great deal of thought [here I covertly back-scrolled this story because I had forgotten what the situation was]–and have decided to approve your request for others of your kind–specifically Ewes. At first I thought I’d require you and your little friends to fetch HeXopahtha’s broom, but that has been done before. Instead, Daisy will briefly open the interdimensional vortex from her computer, connect it to Scotland and invite any Sheep who wishes to come over and become talking Fictional Character Sheep in the Springs. We, however, are not an escort service, and both male and female Sheep, let’s say, an even dozen Ewes and eleven Rams, will come across. It will be up to you to try to win the heart of whomever you shall desire.”

“It’s stuckly stuck,” Daisy said.

“What do you mean stuck?”

“There–got it closely closed–all betterly better,” she said.

The interdimensional vortex at the center of Saragun Springs, which anyone can enter from outside dimensions, but is much tougher to use as an escape hatch, is always acting up. I should have dug more deeply into the “stuckly stuck” because whenever it behaves in a unique fashion further “one of those headaches” are certain to arrive in the near future. But being lazy, hearing “all better” was good enough for me; yet as always good enough is a perishable commodity in my life.

-3-

“We’re up to our Johnnies in Sheeps,” said Barkevious the next day, back in the countryside, again sniffing for gore and waste.

“Aye,” said Beezer, “a regular wooly plague has befallen us.”

Barkevious gazed at the Nameless Hills which were dotted with endless Sheep. “How many did Daisy say got in while the vortex door was ajar?”

“‘A buttly butt load’–she’s still toting the sum,” Beezer said, thoughtfully. “I wonder if Conrad’s personality is aimable enough to land one gal from that big a crowd?”

“Aye, he’s a bit of an Al Jolson impersonator, that one,” said Barkevious.

The four billigits swarmed in and flew just out of the boys’ reach.

Each little blue billigit was wearing horned rimmed glasses and toting a pad and red pencil.

“barkevious baw,” said either flounder or weasel (they are hard to tell apart). “for your racist remark about a white wooled sheep with a black face you are required to attend sensitivity training.”

“How now–flying Smurf?” said Barkevious. “Crimony, if anything, it was an insult to racism, you water-headed pillock.”

Although they constantly quibble, both Baws are quick to defend the other. “Yeah, fuck you boys and the Ewes you rode in on.”

He then turned to Barkevious. “No need for you to attend the class alone.”

“There better be snacks,” said Barkevious.

“Indeed. We identify as snack recipients,” Beezer said to the billigits. “Not healthy ones, either, ye little malaria spreaders.”

Beezer knew that identify was a magic word.

There would be snacks.

-4-

“How many?” I asked, trying to light a smoke with hangover hands.

“Fifty-nine thousand and twenty-seven–sixty percent are girly girls,” Daisy said, smiling, goddam little tail wagging. “Ewes can have many childrenly children as they wish–being from Earth means they are fertile. We should have double the amount come springly spring”

“Any suggestions?” I said, closing one eye and aiming a fresh vessel of Maker’s Mark at my glass.

Four Sheep trotted into my office and began eating from a trough of alfalfa I had to install after the stuck vortex debacle. Sheep throughout the day. Plenty for insomniacs to count at night.

Daisy smiled as brightly as possible. And for once she omitted the adverbs and said, “You’re gonna need a bigger realm.”

Leila