Erek Speed

To Amy, food poisoned.

Simon was trying to sleep.  That goes without saying.  Simon was a sheep and as you know, sheep are not terribly clever beasts for doing things besides sleeping, and Simon is not to be an exception.  Unfortunately, the process of anthropomorphization will no doubt seem to give him faculties of a particularly clever sheep.  Ignore this.

Simon couldn’t sleep though.  Bilbo was on the move.  The young enthusiastic bunny was the enemy of sleep as much as Simon was its herald.  Right now, Bilbo was on the move atop of Simon, bouncing up and down, as young bunnies do.  “Up! Up! Up! Up!” Bilbo insisted in time with his bounces.  “Sleeeep?” murmured Bilbo’s wooly friend, in his slow careful manner, as if every word was his first ever, imagined in the way you might hear a sheep speak, knowing that it should not be speaking at all.

There was no hope though, Bilbo was on the move.  “Snow! Pond! Slide!” syncopated the bunny, just as adorably as you imagine.  Slowly but indefatigably, defeat dawned upon Simon and he plodded down the hill to where the pond was shimmering; ice having turned the convenient water hole into a veritable Bilbo the Bunny playground.  The walk was short, but Simon was slow, and without a dog at his heels progress was not to Bilbo’s liking.  “Quick! Quick! Quick!” hopped the baby rabbit, hopelessly optimistic in his encouragement.  Simon plodded; Bilbo oscillated.  The pond was reached.

“Weeee!” squealed the lagomorpha, taking a long leap from the back of his ovine companion.  The ice was everything he wanted.  His momentum sent him careening into the opposite snow bank.  Emerging from the snow, he pushed off again, his quick bursts of speech suddenly elongated to match his new mode of ambulation.  “Siiiiiiiiiiiiii” pleaded the bunny as he disappeared into another patch of playful snow.  “Mooooooon!” He insisted on the return trip.  Simon was still on the edge of the pond.  To Bilbo’s small mind, there could be nothing stranger in the world than standing next to a pond when the promise of so much fun was a step away.  Simon hesitated.  He was used to following the rabbit, but something was delaying him.  As if, at the back of his mind, he remembered something besides the need to sleep, eat, and drink.  Oof!  Bilbo continued sliding after his rebound off of the sheep’s head.  Back to his senses (or lack thereof) Simon took a few careful steps and was soon sliding slowly across the ice.

Crack!  The fuzzy animal’s heavy hoof descended through the ice.  Crack!  His front legs were submerged.  His head painfully hit the ice, stopping the deadly plunge for a grateful moment.  Simon was in danger.  Responding immediately in the manner of sheep, he did nothing.  Bilbo popped up from a snow bank.  “Noooooooo!” he cried as he slid toward his imperiled friend.  But what could he do?  He was just a little bunny, with no means to resolve such a predicament.  He bounded up the bank.  “Hellp! Hellp!” he shouted; his air time extended as he rushed to find a savior.

Being a bunny, however; he soon forgot about his friend and continued playing in the snow.  No matter, because the ice held Simon only a few moments longer and he was sent to an icy grave.  I suppose that’s how nature operates; dismally absent of the rainbows and butterflies of our youth.  Not here! Reader, fear not! Your humble narrator has not abandoned those happier times.  A simple application of my pen: an optimistic correction . . .

Bilbo hit Owl’s (who else?) tree with a loud thud.  “What ails you, my child?” spoketh Owl.  Wise and old, he speaks like a kind professor or perhaps your favorite uncle or grandfather.  “Si—! Mon—! Pond—!” he chattered, a blur of agitation.  “When will you two learn?  This is the 3^rd time this week!” Chastised Owl.  With no time left, Owl flew from the tree, Bilbo following underneath.  He gathered a rescue squad, motley by most standards:  first, the old mare; strong enough for the job and obedient enough to follow directions, next, the white oak Ravens; essential for their flight and precision, finally, the older rabbits of the warren; light on their feet yet a bit more stable than our un-aged Bilbo.

As the group reached the pond, the sad sheep was in the same position his bunny friend had left him.  For once, the sheep’s opposition to change served him well in not worsening his predicament.  The mare’s ropes were first attached to Simon’s head by the deft Ravens.  Next, the elder rabbits carefully distributed the ropes around the submerged, freezing front legs of their young’s cohort. “Pull!” commanded Owl.  The mare backed up, slowly rescuing Simon from the cold grip of an early death.  With one final burst of effort, the sheep was freed.  A chorus of cheers rose from the crowd.  The ice once supporting Simon immediately collapsed signaling just how dangerous the animal friends had come to disaster.

As the crowd dispersed, each gave a stern warning to the cavalier pair.  They didn’t expect much, each day the troublesome duo provided some heart attack inducing problem or another.  Alone once again, for once, Bilbo was silent.  In position on Simon’s back, his slow, rhythmic hops belied nothing but simple relief.

Simon slept.