Alice's Farm

by Maryrose Wood

  “Ah, but tomorrow will never come, I fear. For I’m here now, little rabbit.” There was a ripple of white in the meadow. It was Worm.

  Everyone drew back. They were all afraid of Worm. Weasels were vicious hunters and fighters, and so stealthy. Just look how he’d snuck in among them, unseen!

  “Tomorrow is too late,” he cooed. “I, too, have come for my share, and I will not wait one more day.”

  “Didn’t you hear her?” Thistle bleated in terror. “No vegetables until tomorrow! Come back then!”

  “I’ve not come for vegetables, young fellow. I’ve come for rabbit. That is what we agreed, was it not?”

  “It was,” said Alice calmly. “I haven’t forgotten.”

  Lester hopped forward. “You want rabbit? Well, then. Here I am!”

  Alice’s ears shot up. “Lester, no!”

  Lester’s tail shimmied—shimmied! He thought it was hilarious. “Don’t be silly, young ’un. What difference does it make to me now?”

  Thistle came forward, too. “Lester, I don’t know how to tell you this. You’re not dark yet. You’re still alive!”

  The old cottontail laughed, silently of course, but his tail was a blur of comedy. “I know that, young ’un! Do you think I’ve lost all my wits? Now, listen to me, you weasel. Leave the little cottontail alone. She’s still young, and she’s worked hard, for the sake of all of us. She needs more time in the meadow to enjoy herself. I’ll go with you right now. I’m ready for you.”

  But Worm would not be persuaded. “You are not nearly as young and tender as what I had in mind. Besides, this one and I have an agreement.”

  “We have an agreement with her, too!” the high voice of the chipmunk leader piped up. “If you eat her now, we’ll never get our seeds for winter. And that will not do! Chip-CHUNK!” At his command, the chipmunks formed a phalanx. There were hundreds there, in battle formation. It was a whole chipmunk army!

  Worm sneered. “Since when has a weasel been afraid of a chipmunk?”

  “There’s safety in numbers!” one brave chipmunk cried.

  “Is there, though?” Worm bared his teeth. The front lines flinched.

  Alice took a forward hop, to the edge of the stump. “I will keep to our bargain, Worm. But first, these animals must receive what they’ve been promised. I ask for one more day!”

  “One more day!” the chipmunks cried. “One more day, to get our share!”

  “What on earth is going on here?” It was Foxy, tearing into their midst at a gallop—the sheep had told her the situation was baaaad; dire, in fact. She spotted Worm. “My goodness, that is a handsome coat you have! Even more striking than fox fur, and I say that with full admiration for foxes.” There was a method to her chattiness, for it gave her a moment to get the scent of the situation. “Handsome, and yet—it seems no one here is glad to see you. Alice, are you all right?”

  Before Alice could reply, Berry jumped in to explain. “The weasel wants to eat her right, right now,” he said. “And we’d all rather he didn’t.”

  “Well, that’s absurd. Of course he won’t,” Foxy scoffed, but her fur was bristling.

  “Get out of my way, dog,” Worm hissed at Foxy.

  “Foxy! Be careful. He’s a good fighter,” Thistle warned, with a yelp of fear.

  That Worm was a better fighter than Foxy was a given. Weasels were sharp-toothed, experienced killers. Foxy was no match for this. What she had, of course, was confidence.

  “Is this rodent bothering you, Alice?” the dog asked, oozing authority.

  “We did make a deal,” Alice confessed.

  “Nonsense,” Foxy said. “Weasels and rabbits making deals is not a fair exchange at all. You can’t possibly negotiate with a ferocious creature who’s threatening to eat you. Who could think properly in such a situation? The agreement is null and void,” she declared, using a phrase she’d once heard Brad use on the phone with a client. To Alice, she said, “He should never have asked you to agree to such rubbish, and he’s not going to eat you now or later. I won’t have it.”

  “A deal is a deal! You know nothing of how we real animals live,” Worm said, full of contempt. “Now get out of my way and let me take what’s mine,” he hissed, before hurling the ultimate insult: “You … perfumed house pet!”

  Foxy’s lips drew back in fury. “I may be well-mannered and relatively clean,” she snarled, “but I am no house pet! I am a farm dog! I work! I herd! Above all, I protect!”

  The Shiba growled as fiercely as any canine before her ever had. She snarled like an animal so wild that no human could dream of taming her. Carl would have been shocked.

  Worm got the message. Even as the dog lunged, the weasel bolted, with Foxy in single-minded pursuit.

  It had all happened so quickly. Alice was beside herself. She trembled and shook. No one had ever seen her so distraught. Lester, whose vigor had been renewed by his day’s adventure, offered to hop with her slowly back to Burrow, so she could rest and settle herself. Otherwise, she was going to make herself go dark with upset, and then what was the point of Foxy saving her from Worm in the first place? Together they zigzagged into the fading twilight, toward home.

  All the animals were shaken by Worm’s appearance. That Alice had made such a deal with the weasel for the sake of the farm’s success also gave them something to think about. With not much pleading required, and the support of Marigold and Berry, Thistle convinced them all to come back tomorrow; and to meet behind the barn to collect their shares, as Alice had asked them to do.

  Exactly how he and Alice would provide enough seeds and vegetables to satisfy all these animals was still a mystery to Thistle. But rabbits do have a knack for multiplying, and all animals have the advantage of being inclined to take life one day at a time.

  “As the Great Rabbit said: Tomorrow isn’t until tomorrow,” Thistle reminded himself, “and a lot can happen in a day.”

  * * *

  Tallulah and Zane had finally gone back to their hotel. As soon as they left, Marie was put to bed, yawning, but she’d been happy all evening, prattling in her semi-coherent way to the newcomers and tugging on Zane’s mustache as hard and as often as he’d let her.

  “Hey, Applesauce! You’re a cool little dude, aren’t you. Ouch! Strong, too.” Zane closed his eyes. “Isn’t it cool to imagine all the stuff that goes on in a baby’s head? If only they could tell us. Like animals. Don’t you wish you knew what they were thinking?”

  “Baa baa baa,” Marie said, tugging.

  “I think she thinks you look like a sheep,” Tallulah teased.

  As it turns out, that was exactly what Marie was thinking, and she laughed uproariously that somebody finally got it right.

  Brad and Sally kept their brave faces on until the magazine people left. They expressed so much gratitude for the contest win, so much excitement, they couldn’t wait, this would be a game changer. They said all the right things in all the right ways. Then the door closed.

  Brad counted to ten and turned to his wife. “Hey! Did you hear the one about the farmers that were going out of business? There’s good news and bad news…”

  “Brad, don’t.”

  “The good news is, they’re still in business. And the bad news is…”

  “What’s the bad news?” asked Carl, who’d just come in from yet another anxious trip outside. He liked a good joke, but his dad’s jokes were mostly not that good.

  Brad sighed. “Never mind, champ.”

  Sally looked annoyed. “It’s not funny, Brad.”

  Carl hadn’t come in for the jokes anyway. He was worried. “Mom. Dad. Foxy hasn’t come back yet.”

  “This again.” Brad looked to be on his last nerve about the dog’s wandering habits. “She knows how to find her way home. She’s used to being outside.”

  “Not during hunting season she’s not,” Sally said darkly.

  Brad looked at Sally. “What about the vest?”

  “You mean this?” Sally held up the
yellow vest.

  “I’m really worried, Dad,” said Carl.

  “I’m worried too,” Sally confessed.

  Brad frowned. “Okay. Maybe I should go look for her.”

  “I’m coming with you,” said Carl.

  Brad considered it. “Fine, champ. We’ll both go. Let’s grab a couple of flashlights from the basement, it’s already pretty dark out…”

  BANG!

  BANG BANG!

  The shots rang out through the valley.

  “Dad!” Carl cried, his eyes welling up. “Was that a gunshot?”

  “It was three shots,” Sally said, white as a sheet.

  Brad tried to comfort them both, though he, too, felt sick with dread. “It’s hunting season, remember? It’s okay. We’re going to hear shots now and then…”

  Marie started wailing upstairs, and Brad brought her down.

  They waited.

  There were no more shots.

  Ring! Ring! Ring!

  It was the telephone in the kitchen. Sally grabbed it. “Hello?” she said, her voice quivering. “It’s Janis,” she mouthed to Brad as she listened. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. Okay.”

  She hung up the phone. “Foxy’s fine.”

  Carl started to cry.

  “Who got shot, then?” Brad asked.

  Sally shook her head. “She’s coming right over.”

  * * *

  The animals heard the gunshots, too.

  The rabbits didn’t worry about Foxy being mistaken for a fox by hunters. That dog seemed to have total control over humans, and the difference between a dog and a fox was obvious to anyone with a working nose. Perhaps they weren’t taking into account how dull people’s noses were, but still.

  Doggo, on the other hand. Doggo was the one in real danger.

  “He knew enough to leave. I bet he’s far away by now,” Alice said to her brother. She’d finally calmed down, but Thistle had started trembling at the first BANG! and couldn’t seem to stop.

  “If it’s the fox’s time, it’s his time,” Lester said consolingly. “But you’re right to be ill at ease about it, young ’un. It’s not a nice way to go.”

  * * *

  It took Janis a while to get there, but the rumble and groan of the tractor gave plenty of notice of her arrival. “My car’s in the shop,” she explained. “But look who’s riding shotgun!”

  At the word shotgun, Carl let out a little moan, like he’d been hit in the stomach. There was Foxy in the tractor, panting and wide-eyed. She was unharmed, but her tail was not what you’d call furled.

  Janis climbed out. There was a bloodstain on the top of her dungareed thigh. She didn’t seem to know it was there. “This brave pup of yours needed a ride home. I can’t believe she made it all the way to my place. She’s got more stamina than I gave her credit for. More spunk, too.” She gave the dog a rough tousle, which made Foxy’s ears flatten in distaste.

  “What was she doing at your place?” Sally asked.

  “Chasing this guy.”

  Janis reached into the cab and held up a dead animal. Long-bodied, with a black nose and a black tail tip. The rest of him was pure plush white, except for a dark spot where the bullet had entered. “The chicken killer. That dog of yours flushed him out and chased him right into my sights, like a good hunting dog should.”

  Brad gave the dog a half-hearted “Atta girl,” but none of them liked looking at the dead weasel. Sally kept trying to cover Marie’s eyes. “First sheep herding, now hunting,” Brad went on. “What next, huh, Foxy?”

  In answer, Foxy climbed down off the high seat of the tractor and jumped to the ground. She trotted directly over to Carl and leaned against his legs, eyes closed.

  Sally’s eyes were shining all over again, this time from pure relief. “She’s giving you a dog hug, honey. What a good girl. Extra treats for you, Foxy.”

  “Woof,” Foxy said, but it was little more than a whimper.

  Janis looked at Foxy with new respect. “That’s a good dog you’ve got there. Pound for pound, weasels are the meanest fighters in the valley. If your dog had been raised here, she’d have learned long ago to leave weasels alone. Poor thing didn’t know any better. Just goes to show, one brave heart can outgun a whole regiment.”

  “Stop saying gun!” Carl said. A moment later he was crying. Marie started crying, too. Sally wasn’t far behind.

  Brad didn’t know what to do. “What’s the matter, champ? Foxy’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

  Carl sank to the ground and hugged his dog. He turned his furious, tearstained face to Janis. He pointed at the dead weasel, lying across the seat of the tractor.

  “You shot him!”

  Janis kept a level way about her. “You’re dang right I did. He’s been killing my chickens.”

  “He was just trying to eat,” Carl returned heatedly.

  “I don’t blame the weasel for wanting to eat chickens. I like to eat ’em, too. But those were my chickens. Not his.”

  “That doesn’t mean you had to shoot him!”

  “Hey, hey,” Brad said, still trying to comfort the boy, but Carl shook him off.

  Janis spoke gently. “He was already caught in a trap, kid. Believe me, it was the kind thing to do.”

  At the word trap Marie howled, “Doggoooooooo!”

  Sally consoled the baby. “Foxy’s fine, sweetie, see? She’s right here.” But of course, Marie was worried about Doggo.

  Brad turned to Janis. “You set traps, finally?”

  “Once the critter figured out how to get into the chicken coop, it was him or me.” She shrugged. “I owed it to Florence.”

  Carl began to cry all over again. He was sad about Florence, but he was heartbroken about the weasel. It was so cute, like a sock puppet, its thick fur pure white except for a dark button nose and the tail tip that looked like it’d been dipped in ink.

  Why did life have to be so hard? Why did cute things have to die? Why did chickens have to taste so good? Why did everything have to eat and be eaten? It all just seemed so mean-spirited.

  Janis gazed at Carl. She didn’t seem mad at all. “I’m sorry, kid. The food chain’s no picnic. See what I did there? Food? Picnic? It’s a pun.”

  “It’s not funny!” Carl wailed.

  “I know it’s not funny. But it’s not a tragedy, either. Trust me, a weasel’s nothing to get sentimental about. Neither is Florence, really. Remember, I was planning to eat her myself, come Christmastime.”

  “You are so gross!” he yelled, and ran off. He was angry, but also confused, and sad, and guilt-ridden, and a few other feelings mixed in.

  After all, Carl had eaten plenty of chicken in his day, too.

  He just didn’t know whose side to be on.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The taste of victory.

  The Harvest Festival had been a day of victories at Prune Street Farm, and a day of some other things, too.

  First and foremost was the victory of science and the rule of law, as Tom Rowes was made to row, row, row his little red sports car gently down the street for good.

  There was the victory of the Harvey family, now anointed as Hipster Farmer magazine’s Hipster Farmers of the Year. Their photo would grace the cover of the December issue and make them the most well-known farmers in the valley, for a while, at least. What they’d do with all that free publicity was yet to be determined, but winning was winning, and nothing to scoff at.

  Most victorious of all was the triumphant return of Foxy, the bravest Shiba around! Foxy, the weasel chaser! Foxy, defender of rabbits and protector of chickens!

  Every elegant bone in her body ached from that long-distance chase across the meadows and through the trees to Janis’s farm. She’d even had to cross a two-lane road, with actual cars zooming by! That was the most terrifying part of her ordeal. She knew she was supposed to “look both ways” (she’d heard Sally say it a million times), but there was no time for looking while in the fever of the hunt, racing pell-mell after yo
ur prey.

  Not once did Foxy consider what would happen if she actually caught the dang weasel. That’s a species-wide quirk of the canine brain, and if you’ve ever seen a dog chasing a garbage truck, you know all about it. If at any point during the chase the weasel had turned to fight, he’d have had his teeth in her throat before she could utter a single charming remark.

  So why did he bolt? Instinct, probably. He might have meant to lure her to familiar ground before turning. Or perhaps he wanted to tire her out with a difficult chase before the fight. Or perhaps, somewhere deep in his weasel heart, he truly had a split second of doubt, when faced with Foxy’s unassailable self-regard and noble defense of her friends.

  Whatever his motive, in his careless rush, he ran right into one of Janis’s traps. The mortally injured weasel let out a harrowing cry that would have drawn every carrion eater in the valley, had Janis not heard him and put a quick end to his suffering.

  By the time the panting and disoriented Shiba scratched fearfully at Janis’s door, whining for a bowl of water and a ride home, the victory over Worm was complete. But whose victory was it? Foxy’s? Janis’s? The shotgun’s? You could argue it was justice itself that had prevailed by letting the clever, selfless, and brave outwit the vicious. Or maybe it was simply a matter of firepower. As the saying goes, if you bring a weasel to a gunfight, the odds are pretty much stacked against you.

  Once back in her own home, Foxy endured the excessive attentions of her relieved family, but she was too tired and full of sadness even for a treat. She curled up in her dog bed and didn’t budge till morning.

  * * *

  Upstairs in his room, Carl slept in fits and starts. His dreams made him restless; all of them ended with a BANG! and a whimper. By morning he’d done a wheelbarrow full of thinking. He came downstairs, ate the pancakes his mother had made but politely declined the scrambled eggs, and then asked his parents if one of them could drive him over to Janis’s place.