I did. It was the end of winter, a time of year known as mud season in these parts. All the snow melts, somehow turning into mud. Through the kitchen window I could see the remains of the tall, shining snowman Harmony and Bro had built, now short and squat and marked with many yellow zigzags, thanks to certain bathroom habits of that other party. I myself don’t go outside much at any time, but never in mud season. Mud spatters on my coat? What could be worse? Rain started up outside, pounding on the roof and slanting down the window.
“I think Queenie’s mad at me,” Bertha said.
“Oh?” said Mom.
“There’s no cream today.”
“How come?”
“No idea. I set the empties on the back step when I leave for the day and Walter has always made the delivery by the time I get here in the morning—two gallons of whole milk and a pint of cream.”
“Who’s Walter?” Mom said.
“Mr. Doone’s hired man,” said Bertha. “More like a hired kid—he can’t be more than seventeen or eighteen.”
Mom opened the side door. One small glass bottle and two big ones, all empty, stood on the back step. Were we getting anywhere? If so, very, very slowly. Mom closed the door.
“Maybe the cows are taking the day off,” she said.
Bertha laughed, so this must have been another joke. Mom laughed, too. Sometimes Mom laughs at her own jokes. She looks very pretty when she laughs, actually looks pretty all the time. Her eyes are really quite beautiful, big and dark and full of thoughts. Not beautiful like mine—just throwing that in so you don’t form a wrong opinion. You’re welcome, but don’t count on me to keep looking out for you.
“The fact is, there’s only one cow,” Bertha said. “And she never takes a day off.”
“Mr. Doone has only one cow?” said Mom.
“But she’s an Emsworth.”
“Emsworth?” Mom said. “Is that a breed of cow? I’ve never heard of it.”
Bertha shook her head. “Not a breed. This cow is the great-great—I don’t know how many greats—granddaughter of Lady Emsworth, the most prizewinning cow that ever lived in the Green Mountains. She’s called Sweet Lady Em, on account of the sweetness of her milk.” Bertha glanced my way. “And her cream,” she added.
Yes, my cream. That was the issue. Thanks for remembering. Where was my cream? Had this Sweet Lady Em character—evidently a cow having something to do with the delivery of my cream—messed up? I had very little experience with cows—in fact, only one, and that experience not good. This was back in the days when I used to do much more outdoor roaming. That ended when we had a visit from an unpleasant old lady from a group with a strange name—the Society for the Protection of Birds, or something of that nature. The protection of birds? That made no sense to me. Birds are very capable of protecting themselves—by quickly taking off and soaring into the sky, for example. You’ve got to be even quicker to have the slightest chance of actually catching one, which I’m happy to say I’ve done on many, many . . .
But back to my one and only experience with a cow. At the time, I happened to be following a mousy scent trail that led through a tiny hole in the wall of a barn not far from Blackberry Creek, which I’ve never crossed, creeks being wet. Tiny holes are no problem for me. I just sort of flowed through it and came softly down inside the barn, where I got my first look at this mouse of mine, a fattish little fellow burrowing into some straw on the floor. We seemed to be in a stall, sharing the space with a yellowish-colored cow busy chewing on something that smelled atrocious, chewing and chewing but never swallowing. Not my problem. I had no problems. Fattish mice are never much of a challenge. You don’t even need to be the best pouncer in the world, although it just so happens that I am.
I pounced. What fun! Very quiet fun—a look of terror in micey eyes is completely silent—and at the same time good-natured, one of us batting the other around from paw to paw, and the other getting batted, no harm, no foul. No telling how it would end—which makes it even more fun! My mouse buddy and I were so busy having fun that we lost track of the cow, who must have changed position slightly because all of a sudden I felt an extremely heavy hoof settle down on my tail. I tried to scramble away and got nowhere. This was a nightmare. Meanwhile the mouse shot me one brief glance, then scurried up the wall and disappeared somewhere above, as though it got to decide when our little game was over. How maddening! Also maddening was this heavy hoof. I curled around and bit into it in decisive fashion. My teeth are needle-sharp, by the way, maybe should have gotten that fact in earlier. The cow lowered her head slightly and gazed down at me, still chewing in that annoying way but otherwise showing nothing—like pain, for example, from my needle-sharp teeth.
I tried hissing. I have a loud, harsh hiss that even scares me sometimes. She went on chewing. Her cud? Is that what it’s called? I believe so. And then came the very worst moment of the whole episode. The cow slobbered some of that cud directly down on me! On my sublime and glowing coat! I know how terrible you’re feeling for me right now, and I appreciate it. I’m sure nothing remotely so awful has ever happened to you.
But back to me. For no reason I could see, the cow slowly raised her hoof and shifted toward the other side of the stall. I bolted out of that barn and made my way home to the inn, where I mounted the grandfather clock, remaining there until the cuddy smell had vanished completely—several days, if I remember right.
And now cows were out to get me again. Where was my cream? I wanted my cream! Cream! Cream! Cream!
“Is her hair standing on end?” Mom said.
“Looks that way,” said Bertha.
“I wonder if something’s wrong with her.”
“Something’s wrong with her, all right. She wants her cream.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
Mom gazed down at me. “What a funny little character!”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Bertha said.
“Come on, Bertha. I know you love her.”
“Hrrmmph,” said Bertha. That’s a sound she makes to show she loves me, just in case you were wondering. Mom’s always right about the big things.
Meanwhile she’d opened the door to our quarters and was calling up the stairs.
“Bro? Are you awake?”
“No.”
“I want you to walk over to the Doones’ place, see if they’re on the way with the milk.”
“And cream,” Bertha said.
Yes, she loves me, loves me very much. Very nice, although not surprising.
“What about Harmony?” Bro yelled down. Bro and Harmony are twins, but not the identical kind. I’ve heard that explained to so many humans so many times that it makes me crazy. When I’m crazy my fur stands on end. Like now. I was having a very bad day and it had hardly begun.
“I picked you,” Mom said.
“Why?”
“Luck of the draw. And take Arthur. He could use the exercise.”
Spencer Quinn is the pen name of the Edgar Award–winning novelist Peter Abrahams. He has written many books for younger readers, including the New York Times bestselling Bowser and Birdie series, and the Edgar-nominated Echo Falls series. His novels for adults include Oblivion, The Fan (made into a movie starring Robert De Niro), The Right Side, and the New York Times bestselling Chet and Bernie mystery series. He lives with his wife, Diana, and dogs, Audrey and Pearl, on Cape Cod, Massachusetts.
Copyright © 2019 by Pas de Deux Corp.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
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First edition, April 2019
Cover art by Jennifer Taylor, © 2019 Scholastic Inc.
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e-ISBN 978-1-338-09141-0
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