For those of you with birthdays in May, we bulls must moo together. To that end – I give you this contribution.
In the land of Knoll Idg, in the home of Fender Blowhard there was a gathering. Hurry Feathers was telling stories about some of Worm Wood’s family and having a grand time of it. His claim that Bugs Fudd was actually the illegitimate child of Wiley Coyote had a small group in the company furious beyond words.
Since Fender had served his finest fermented carrot wine, and most had partaken, he feared something might get broken in the thick silence that subverted all further conversation. So it was that he invited them to step outside and admire his gardens.
He toured them around the terrace, pointing out this botanical and that. He lined them up and trailed them through his greenhouse; so proud of his green vegetables was he. The sun shone down and the air was an agent of deep breaths and calm hearts. Certainly Hurry Feathers would have apologized to Worm Wood, if not completely retracted his fuss, if not for one Peter Cottontail caught drunk in the carrot patch.
It was no real surprise. The Cottontail family had been long overdue for an intervention and Peter was the most degenerate of the herd. His belligerence made him heavier than his lithe frame indicated, and it took nearly all of them to subdue and drag him to the nearest shed where he could be detained until help arrived. Fender was dismayed at the trampled magnolia and torn cherry blossom limbs that resulted from this fracas , but nonetheless carefully locked a now snoring Peter Cottontail in the tool closet.
Magistrate Bullock Henry soon arrived, having solicited the assistance of the town counselor, Okrah Windfall. He had dealt with several generations of Cottontail troubles and felt it best to have all angles covered. Bullock determined to arrest the boy and asked Fender where he could apprehend the trespassing hare. When Fender hesitated, he asked, “Come now, Mr. Blowhard, do you not want this criminal removed?”
“Pardon me, Sir,” fumbled Fender as he reached for words of diplomacy, “it’s just that you’ve brought Ms. Windfall with you, and the boy is barely more than a bunny. Perhaps you might send her to speak words of encouragement and comfort so that the young miscreant comes to his senses and vacates of his own free will.” Fender congratulated himself silently, for in truth, he was more worried about the further damage magistrate Henry, a rather large Angus, would do if sent to make an arrest.
The judge obliged and nodded to the counselor. “Where then, might I find him, Mr. Blowhard?” she asked.
“He’s locked in the tool closet in my Chinese garden,” said Fender, handing her the key and pointing to the east corner.
Espousing the benefits of sobriety and encouraging a new leaf, Okrah knocked and knocked. But alas, her words fell on deaf ears as she opened the door and found young Mr. Cottontail unresponsive on the floor. She only turned her back for a second to beckon for help, but it was all the time Peter needed to make his escape. A flash of white bounded through the door and into the underbrush that separated the roses from the berry bushes a few yards over. A now agitated magistrate pawed the ground and ordered the gardens secured so Cottontail could be found. He organized a patrol-line from among those guests that remained. They searched the entire garden, high and low, but found no sign of the rabbit.
His garden ruined, and the inebriated thief still at-large, Blowhard sent the party home and thanked the magistrate and counselor for their efforts. To this day, berries go missing and carrot-wine disappears, and Fender Blowhard constantly searches for the little bunny that never quits.
There are two morals in this story, girls and boys. Can you guess what they are?
First, gossip has no substance; it’s as weighty as a feather, and almost always leads to wormwood. Second, (and my personal favorite) – a bull in the China closet is better than beating around the bushes for the rest of your days.