As we rejoin our story...It is sunday morning, very early, before the
start of the big Flea Market in the next town over. The Noble Allis
Chompers had trotted over to the Harrington Farm to meet the sheep,
and the two would walk through the woods to the Flea Market. Everyone
else, however, was going by tractor....

Then it was time for Ping and Puma to start the tractor, which had
been sitting, neglected, for quite some time ever since the crack in
the front axle had been detected. Ping slotted the gear shift into
'Neutral' with a heave of his strong shoulders, and Puma turned the
key in the ignition. The starter motor whined and whined and whined,
the iron frame of the tractor shook, and everyone imagined that crack
getting a little deeper, a little more deadly. The first pop of black
smoke belched from the exhaust, to be followed rapidly by half a dozen
more, and the wounded tractor roared into life, its great greasy heart
thumping and pistoning beneath its battered green hood. The birds all
flew away in terror, dropping the seed away from their beaks as they
flew. It landed on the ground, abandoned. The crickets in the long
grass were all startled to silence, and in the forest, the deer stood
still and listened....

And Sterling the Silver Cat, now transformed by the Second Otter's
artistry into an exotic endangered Ocelot gathered himself into a
coiled spring and made to leap out of the bucket in absolute terror!
This was his first ever tractor ride, and the experience was apparently
just too much for him. The First Otter whipped out one small brown arm
and wrapped it around the cat's neck, aborting the leap, which would
have taken him right into the deep forest, from which it would have
been impossible to retrieve him! The Second Otter threw *both* arms
around the cat, and held onto him for dear life as Sterling wailed his
misery, and the tractor roared and belched darker smoke. Sterling
kicked the Second Otter in the belly with his back feet like an angry
rabbit, but the determined Otter would not let go. After a few minutes
of becoming accustomed to the noise and the stink of the tractor and
*lots* of verbal soothing and encouragement, the exotic endangered
Ocelot was once more a willing part of the crew. Barely.

Ping revved up the throttle (and the Otters tightened their supportive
holds on Sterling, it looked supportive, anyway!) and Puma steered the
tractor gently into the dirt and gravel street. There would be no
flying on this trip. They were going to roll, the whole way. Past the
neighbours, just getting up and making good breakfast smells in their
homes. Past the convenience store with the twenty four hour gas pumps
and the banks of fluorescent lighting. Past the Dunkin Donuts
driv-thru. (They did not stop, they were conserving as much money as
possible, besides, there had been a problem the last time they had
stopped at that particular drive-thru.) They rolled past the really
good pizza joint, the used car lot, and the new transmission place,
the Polish-American Club, the new Town Homes. They turned onto the big
road with the strip malls, all closed at this time of day, although the
Otters thought that the twenty-four hour McDonalds smelled particularly
*delightful* off in the distance! They rolled past the Wal-Mart, and
then the road narrowed down into homes, and then forest for the next
few miles. It was a nice, uneventful ride, and they were only passed
by a few cars, and one SUV that came to a shrieking stop half in, half
out of its lane then just sat there, idling for half a minute before
it tore away at a high rate of speed.

"That was most rude!" said the First Otter. "I didn't care for the way
he stared!" said the Second. Ping rolled his eyes, which were now so
very white against his new black coloration. Puma kept her eyes on
the road and said nothing. Sterling kept his ears flat against his
artificially spotted head. The tractor's noise bothered him, and he
certainly hadn't cared for the noise the SUV had made.The whiskers on
one side of his face twitched repetitively, as if he had developed a
nervous tic. France, predictably, hissed. And the journey continued.

By the time the sun had edged up over the tops of the trees and more
cars were starting to be seen on the road, a lone John Deere model 1020
tractor...battered and moving rather gingerly, pulled up to the Flea
Market entrance, and traveled up the long gravel driveway. It crossed
the grassy fairway to a metal stake driven into the ground with a hand
lettered sign on top designating that spot as lot 72, the one the
Otters had reserved for fifteen dollars by phone the day before. (Oh,
were the hoomins going to be puzzled when they got their credit card
bill!) Puma carefully steered and backed while Ping slotted the gears
in the proper order. Then, the rare black Russian mink driving the
tractor reached over, and turned the key to the 'off' position, and
the exotic endangered Ocelot visibly sagged in relief as the engine
went silent. The Otters relaxed their 'supportive' grips.

And just at that moment...a fat gray sheep with a dark muzzle, small
ears, and dark, shining eyes walked up to them and said "Maah...The
dog told me to wait here for you."

More Tomorrow
Alexandra in MA

[Posted in FML 5710]