Grandad's Bedtime Fables: Dolly the Sheep

 Grandad’s Bedtime Fables: Dolly the Sheep

 

Once there was a Bear who lived with a Swan.

Or was it a Camel?

Oh yes, I think a Camel, a well-trodden one from the East, where the wise deserts swirl, possessed of beautiful dark eyes and lashes black - like on the covers of ‘Vogue’.

It’s a magazine.

Don’t ask me why they lived together, but for most of their lives it had been a pretty good arrangement. Camel was an accommodating sort of beast, quite patient and highly studied.

However, with each passing day, Bear became more and more cranky with Camel.

“You’re always reading,” Bear grumped, huffing off to bed or huffing out of the cave and down the street in a huff.

“Well, I have to pass my exams, Bear,” Camel would respond, tolerantly, flicking the page over with a hoof, or typing something on a laptop - because some camels are pretty good with computers and such, “Don’t get humpy.”

“Huh!” Bear might grunt, ignoring the joke. And often, having huffed petulantly outside, would stand by the fence, staring at the grass that grew beyond.

Once or twice, Camel would follow, clopping steadily behind, and stand beside Bear. “What are you doing, my dear?”

“Nothing. I just like grass, is all.”

“I see,” Camel would reply. And did. See, that is. Camels are notoriously clever; did you know that?

 

 

When tired of gazing at grass, Bear stomped back into the cave, all prickly that Camel hadn’t stayed long enough to witness some top-notch sulking.

Bear wouldn’t admit that, though. Instead, he clomped around as if extremely tired or dissatisfied with life, ignoring Camel in such a way that Camel knew it. It was first rate ignorance, it really was.

“What’s for supper, Camel?” Bear said, banging a spoon on the table, like I’ve often told you not to. “I’m hungry.”

Camel smiled sweetly. “Well, now, we have hummus, some yoghurt and I’ve made a lovely salad. Maybe you’d like a fish?”

“Fish?” snapped Bear, rudely. “I want chops. Chops and sauce.”

“You like fish,” replied Camel, patiently.

“I don’t like fish. They’re stupid flappy things that flap around in the water. I’ve seen them. Flap, flap, flap. They’re no more than birds that got bored with sky.”

“You do like fish.”

“I don’t.” And Bear blew a farty noise then ran around the cave imitating a badly behaved bird. “Flap, flap, flap,” he shouted, “flap, flap, flappity, flap.”

He took a glass of water from the table and tipped it all over his head. “See? You made me DO that, Camel. Fish? Pah.”

Camel tried not to laugh. He did look silly. “Well, Bear, I don’t think we should be eating chops. I don’t think I like what I’ve read about where they come from. That Mr Lupus is a shifty fellow, he really is. I keep reading bad things about his company and colleagues. They seem an unsavory lot at best.”

“Rubbish. He’s a jolly good fellow, that Mr Lupus. And a millionaire. And all we’ve got to show for our troubles is this rotten smelly old cave. You read too much.”

“Well, it’s fish or nothing, Bear. Come on, it will go cold. Chop, chop.”

“I’ll not eat fish.”

Camel sighed. Sometimes there really was no reasoning with Bear.

 

 

Later that night, past bedtime, Camel found it difficult to sleep. It was often the case these days, but she was an easygoing creature, so she turned over, switched on her bedside light and reached for a book.

It was one of those lamps so designed as to cause little or no discomfort to anyone else in the room, casting shade, but just enough light to read by. She frowned, settled her glasses atop her nose and squinted at the words in the page: ‘Chapter 3’ she read, ‘Pandemics and How to Cause Them.’

Then, she realized, the reason she could not sleep was that she was alone. Being a Bactrian camel, of course, it was an effort to shift her humps off the mattress, but she supposed she must. “Bear? Where are you?”

Well, Camel clopped to the cave entrance and peered outside into the murk of the night through her long lashes. No. He wasn’t there.

So, she went to the back of the cave where they kept their clothes behind a pair of drapes. “Bear?” she shouted.

From behind the drapes, she could now hear some quick and frantic shuffling and a yelp of pain as if someone had accidentally hit shin bones against a rocky outcrop. So, she pulled the drapes aside. “Oh.” she said, “There you are. Ah, Bear? What on earth are you doing?”

Bear, for it was indeed him, cleared his throat in a sound that tried for defiance but actually sound more sheepish than daring. “You shouldn’t go creeping around a cave like that, Camel. It really isn’t done.”

Camel could scarce believe her eyes but was far too polite to say what was really on her mind. “Why are you wearing my clothes, Bear?” Not just any clothes, either. It was the garment she often used to support and cover her humps.

“Wearing your clothes? I’m not wearing your clothes, Camel.” Bear blustered, his face turning a deep shade of crimson. “You must be dreaming.”

“Dreaming? Am I?” asked Camel, who supposed that must be it.

“Yes, dreaming,” Bear declared, firmly. “Either that, or this…thing fell from the clothes rail, and I accidentally became tangled up in it.”

Camel smiled in an understanding sort of way and said no more about it except to ask him whether he might come to bed and that she was tired, then she hoofed it back, climbed in and closed her eyes.

Somewhat noisily, Bear joined her. But would he sleep? Dear me, no. Instead, he took out his phone and started to use some sort of messaging app.

“What are you doing now, Bear?” Camel muttered, in a dismayed tone, but still trying not to be irritated.

“Sheep-Tok,” snapped Bear, as if that explained everything.

Camel decided that she didn’t want to know and did her best to sleep by drawing the covers and pillows over her head.

However, this seemed to irritate Bear. “You’re disturbing me, and you’ve taken more than your fair share of the blanket,” he complained, his fingers busy tapping the phone.

“Sorry, Bear.”

He cast a sidelong look at his companion. She didn’t seem to be in the least bit interested and Bear found this irksome. “Sheep-Tok,” he repeated, no doubt hoping to get a response. But there was nothing doing.

Camel was snoring.

He jabbed her in the hump. “Sheep-Tok is where it’s at,” he proclaimed.

Still nothing.

“All the latest music and media influencers,” Bear continued. Then shouted. “Wow. Guess what?”

Another snore. A snore that sounded a bit forced. A studied snore as if Camel was hoping Bear might take the hint and shut up.

Bear put his paw to his snout and guffawed loudly, putting on a suspect American accent. “Well, I nevah. Did you know? Mick Minger has dropped a mash up with Stick Grenade and his homies. Bling city, or what? In the hood, man. Bust a move.”

Camel opened one eye wearily. “I have a lot of studying tomorrow, Bear.”

“Study, study, study. Get down with sheep, man,” Bear jeered, in a mocking tone. “You’re a long time dead, Camel.”

Camel rolled over, put her light back on and picked up her book again. No point trying to rest when Bear was on a mission to educate her old bones, after all. She had once liked music, she remembered, many years ago, when it had sounded pretty reasonable to her ancient ears. What were they called? The Bleatles? Something like that.

“Wow!” Bear shouted, stabbing at his phone, and leaping out of bed. “This is sensational. We have to go.”

“Go to what, Bear?”

“Tomorrow. In this very manor. There’s a Sheep Pride march. Everyone who’s everyone will be there.” And he rushed out of the cave in a state of high agitation and excitement, bellowing at the top of his voice into the night sky.

“Yes, Bear,” sighed Camel, rolling over. Alone at last, she fell to sleep. But, alas, it wasn’t restful. She was disturbed by the most terrifying nightmares. She tossed and turned, quite unable to expel them from her mind.

 

 

Camel had tried her best to show interest in Sheep Pride, but it was difficult to get excited, really. It mainly consisted of three or four wagons full of sheep being driven round and round in circles, by some of Mr Lupus’ cronies, looking a bit like circus ringmasters.

They had one or two bits of ribbon attached, that fluttered gaily in the breeze and a few of the sheep in the wagons jumped up and down, blowing whistles.

But in all honesty, Camel felt it was a bit underwhelming, even when one sheep made a speech in very simple English about banning an old nursery rhyme for being sheepist.

Bear, however, was transfixed, applauding the speech loudly and shouting: “Right on, Sister!”

The wagons circled a few more times as some old Tupper performed a rap from behind the bars which had some plain rhymes and a quite a lot of offensive swearing. Later, Camel tried to remember some of the words when she was writing her diary: ‘Bah bah sheep-sheep, hear us bleat-bleat, bleat-bah, bleat-bah, yo dude, car.’ Or something like that.

Quite frankly, Camel was relieved when the wagons circled for the last time, and they headed towards Mr Lupus’ building at the edge of town which she had never cared for because it belched black smoke throughout the day and smelt horrible.

“Where are they going, Bear?” asked Camel, politely.

“They are off to Parliament to get better rights for sheep and all sheep related lifeforms,” Bear snapped. “Oh, why am I even bothering to tell you? You’ve always been anti-sheep.”

“No, I haven’t,” replied Camel, surprised at his tone.

But she was even more surprised by what happened next.

 

 

The following morning, Camel was preparing breakfast, humming a little Eastern desert tune to herself.

Breakfast wasn’t much, because they weren’t well-off beasts, given that Bear was too stressed to work most of the time, and Camel had to study for exams.

But she made what little money they had go far and usually managed some porridge with honey, yoghurt and fruit. Dates, usually, she was partial to them, and they were cheap but very good for you.

“Bear,” she called, “breakfast.”

Bear was nowhere to be seen. Camel searched the cave, high and low, which did not take long because it was a bit on the small side, being a council cave. She called again, feeling a bit alarmed.

Eventually she heard a response. A rude one. “What?”

It came from outside the cave. Camel pushed her way out towards the origin of voice and could scarcely believe her eyes.

“Don’t stare, Camel,” Bear grunted. “It’s perfectly normal and acceptable.”

Despite the fact it was raining cats and dogs, bitterly cold and a Sunday, Bear was in the field beyond the fence on all fours. He wore a sheep’s’ fleece on his back and he was attempting to eat the grass.

“Go away, Camel. I’m tired of you. I’ve decided I’m a sheep. I’ve always been a sheep and I always will be a sheep. Don’t ever call me Bear again. My name is Dolly. Dolly the Sheep.”

“But I’ve made porridge for two,” replied Camel, feeling very sad and hurt at his words.

“Sheep don’t eat porridge. They certainly don’t eat honey. They prefer the good clean taste of green, green grass.” And Bear deliberately cropped a huge mouthful and began chewing ecstatically. Until, that is, Camel turned her back and went back into the cave, whereupon he promptly spat it out and began coughing.

Then he started to scratch at the fleece stapled to his back. It was a bit itchy, being full of ticks.

Bear heard a cough and he looked up. “Mr Lupus,” he said, somewhat surprised to see him there at the fence, with a grin upon his mouth. “I thought you’d be busy at Parliament?” Then he added, “I hope you are not here being anti-sheep?”

“Not a jot, not a jot,” replied Mr Lupus, licking his lips and slicking back his oily hair. “I am inordinately fond of sheep. Some of my best friends are all manner of sheep,” he added, reassuringly, “it’s just…”

“Just what?” snapped Bear, suspiciously. “It’s not a crime, you know. Being a sheep.”

“Oh, Bear. Your attitude towards me hurts my feelings, it really does. It rankles, my friend.”

“Does it?” asked Bear, curiously, and having another scratch at the fleece.

“Of course. Was it not me and my cronies who passed the equality law we all enjoy this very day?”

Bear grudgingly agreed. “I suppose it was.”

“My dear Bear. You do look very uncomfortable in that fleece. Why not go…er…the whole hog, so to speak?”

“You mean…”

And, with a vulpine grin, Mr Lupus smiled, put an arm around his shoulders, and led Bear away.

 

 

After that, Camel never saw Bear again.

Once she thought she did, however.

Well, maybe it was Bear. It was during yet another Sheep Pride event (they were happening more and more) that she felt she recognized a voice from one of the beribboned wagons.

She looked up to see a rather oversized sheep, jumping up and down frantically, rattling the sides in a fearsome way, trying to make itself heard over the whistles. She wasn’t sure, but at one point she thought it had charged at the bars almost as though it had wanted them to break.

The bars were untroubled however and before she’d had another chance to look or call out, the procession made its way to Mr Lupus’ building on the horizon.

In the afternoon, there had been another huge cloud of black smoke that smelt very pungent indeed. And the next day, batches and batches of chops in trays appeared in the market. Camel wasn’t tempted to buy any however, although many of her friends did. She supposed that after that, they all had a bit of sheep in them.