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]