“Halt! Who goes there?”
Damn. Caught! she thinks, still struggling to get free. Damn f-ing big udder, she curses. If only she were born a bull, she laments not for the first time atall.
“I was… *hungry*!” she protests. Please don’t shoot me please don’t shoot me please don’t shoot me, she thinks.
“There is plenty of grass outside my trailer… *cow*,” he points out with his strict military voice. Veteran of the Big War he is. Seen a lot of scenes like this in his day. People were hungry. But *cows*? “I haven’t… mowed in several weeks,” he continued. “Been away. Guess that’s why *you’re* here. Been checking out the place for a while, eh?” he figures with his warrior logic. “Like what you see, huh? Vacant trailer… beside a stream where you can get your water… close to the mountains and the beach… *well*, I’ve thought of these things too!”
“Please. If you just free me from this stuck window I’ll explain. Her voice was pretty ordinary for a bovine creature. Her father’s father was an Italian shepherd, explaining her anthropomorphic look. Gets lonely out in the fields sometime. Warrior Kurt is not a total stranger to these urges either.
“Okay, I will free you,” he relents. “But you *must* be pastured. You cannot stay in the trailer with me. Under any circumstances!”
Wow, she thinks. Easy request. Does he have? No… couldn’t be. But then she recalls her heritage.
“What kind of food do you desire? Cow.” Yes, a cow, he thinks. Nothing more. A fat, stinky cow dotted all over with flies. Unsanitary! But here he was thinking of his childhood instead of the present, his uncle’s dairy farm, the mud and the heat. He’s superimposing the past upon the present for a specific purpose, yes, more benefits of wartime military training. He’s even contemplating shooting her in the rear end again, just to get food for *himself*. He feels the pistol underneath his half cape, as if heating up. Should he? She has no defenses. She is like the Durexians on Battle Hill #7 that late April June morning in the May of ’78. The Trojan flag was planted atop it by noon, with only 1 or 2 loses, which unfortunately numbered his chum Chet.
Chet was a vegetarian. Chet would never shoot a defenseless cow. He couldn’t even kill a Durexian threatening to slice his head in two like it was a cantaloupe or watermelon. He puts down the urge to kill. He’ll feed the poor creature. He’ll, yes, let her into his house. If she wishes — her choice.
“Here. I will help you.” She ended up staying in the vacant yellow camper parked beside his trailer, as if waiting for her, expecting her. Meat was always on the table.
Sunklands 