Day 2

Dear Diary,

It is with a certain self-directed annoyance that I admit to sleeping late this morning, and in so doing missing out on a great many activities. Activities I should have found most helpful when it came to writing this journal. But such is life.

The reason, which is not to be confused with an excuse, for my late awakening has much to do with the sheep, or rather with my decision last night to listen to their discussions regarding their imminent removal to an abattoir. They got increasingly upset, not to say all hot and bothered (as is usual for their kind), their bleating growing louder and more hysterical by the minute until, at long last, a small vixen, growling angrily, trotted into their midst and told them that, unless they stopped behaving like chickens and started using their common sense, she would bite them about the ankles. “My kits are trying to sleep,” she said. “Unlike you, they’ve got school tomorrow.”

The ewes sighed deeply and forlornly and said they would, if only they knew how. Could she possibly teach them? It wasn’t their intention to disturb the fox pups’ sleep or to make them fail their exams, but they were at their wit’s end.

“Oh, very well,” replied the little fox, “anything to make you shut up, only start from the beginning and don’t leave anything out.”

The ewes talked amongst themselves for a few minutes, speaking low and in annoying whispers, before appointing the eldest, Murgatroyd-Louise, to be their spokessheep.

“It all began,” she said, again sighing deeply and with a hopelessly forlorn look in her rheumy eyes, “with the arrival of not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker the day before yesterday.” And with that she recounted the woeful events of the preceding day, ending with the unexpected sentences of death and exile passed on the sheep by this selfsame Fecker. “And it’s not as though we’d even become acquainted,” she said in closing, batting a sprinkling of tears from her left eye.

“Humph,” replied the fox. “I understand your predicament.”

“I’m not sure you do,” interjected Murgatroyd-Louise, “at least not from a sheep’s point of view.”

“Ah,” said the fox, “you may be slow and helpless and blindingly stupid, but I’ve got guns to worry about, not to mention hounds and terriers.”

“We know all there is to know about dogs,” said Murgatroyd-Louise crossly. “Nasty smelly things, always biting at our bits and ordering us about, forcing us to go this way and that for no reason whatsoever.”

“That’s not the same thing,” replied the little fox. “Your dogs don’t rip you apart, not like mine.”

“Well they would if they weren’t being watched by the farmer,” pouted the old ewe.

“Have your own way,” said the fox, at which point she turned on her hind legs and walked away.

“Wait!” called Murgatroyd-Louise. “Where are you going? I thought you were going to help us.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” huffed the fox over her shoulder. “I’ve decided you’re even more stupid than I thought and the world might be a better place if you were sent to the abattoir.”

Everyone fell silent (and I, myself, even stopped breathing). After a moment, a dozen of the ewes ran to the fox and begged her to change her mind. “We promise we won’t interrupt,” said one of the younger ones (I’m not sure which ones, but they all do look rather alike, don’t they).

The vixen thought for a minute, and then sighed. “Oh, very well. Give me a few minutes to run home and pack school lunches for my pups, after which I shall explain my plan.”

“Please hurry, Mrs. Fox,” begged Murgatroyd-Louise, “for not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker is wanting to kill us off today.”

“Never you mind about him,” said the fox as she trotted off. “I know for a fact he’s too drunk to wake up, much less kill you. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

The vixen disappeared into the tall grass at the edge of the field, leaving the ewes to fret amongst themselves, talking much louder than they should have, given the circumstances. I pointed out their yelling might just awaken not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker, but, as usual, they paid me no mind. I am a bus, after all, and sheep have little regard for my kind. In fact, you might say that as far as they’re concerned, we hardly exist. Even sheds – hardly the most prepossessing of creatures – get more respect.

That being the case, I examined my own plight and decided there was very little I could do about my situation in any case, so I might as well forget about the sheep, write in my diary and contemplate a possible future as a box of spare parts. I then considered what that might entail. Mightn’t bits and pieces of me end up in a jet aeroplane? Or in a shiny red sports car with a soft top driven by a nymphomaniac?

I then remembered a proud moment after I was retired from service, when a smartly-attired man pointed a camera at me and declared that I was a classic, if ever he’d seen one. Of course, that was before my owner lost me in a game of cards to owld Fingus Da Flatulator, and I was dumped in this field.

At this point, my ruminations were interrupted by the return of the little fox, who was bounding across the field and carrying a large piece of cardboard and a pen in her mouth. The sheep stopped complaining and gossiping and formed a large, anxious circle around her. “What are you going to do with that cardboard and pen?” asked Murgatroyd-Louise. She was, of course, trying to sound sensible, but it really was a very stupid thing to ask.

“If you’ll be patient, I’ll show you,” said the fox.

And with that, the vixen wrote a number of very large letters on the cardboard, something which looked very much like this:

For Sale

To a good home, lovely sheep cheap.
Special price today only.
First come, first serve.
Ideal pets for little girls.
Very clean and don’t use bad language.

When the fox showed her handiwork to the sheep, they ‘oohed’ and ‘ahed’ for a few minutes, until one of them had the presence of mind to ask what it meant.

“It is,” explained the fox proudly, “a For Sale sign, designed especially to attract nice people and little girls who might want to take you home as pets.”

Needless to say, the sheep found many objectionable things to say about the fox’s plan, but she ignored them and went ahead anyway. The upshot, of course, was that within three or four minutes a very large car (pulling a very large trailer) pulled up in front of The Petrol Station. A very large, well-dressed man, accompanied by a little girl with shining blond sausage curls, got out of the car, routed the sleeping Fergal Da Fecker from his bed and paid him a very large amount of money for the sheep, which were duly loaded into the trailer.

The large, well-dressed man and the little girl with the shining blond sausage curls got back into the car (I noticed she sat up front, not in the back in a proper little girl car seat, but such is life) and drove off. Fergal Da Fecker went back to bed and I was left in a field bereft of sheep and with only the cows for company. It was very quiet indeed.

Okay, I made up the bit about it being a very large amount of money. He had a few notes in his money clip. Probably not very much, but not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker would have been happy with a quid (he was that drunk).

I’m not sure what tomorrow will bring. The cows, I know, are worried and Fergal Da Fecker seemed to be in a very bad mood when he woke up again about an hour later. I heard him yell something about ‘The Bastard’ and the money not being worth a pound o’ shite. We’ll hafta wait and see, won’t we.

Anyway, I’m off to sleep, and as I wrote yesterday, here endeth the day.