Molly the Lioness had a problem. A dark, deep secret that nobody knew of. She was addicted to picking the nearby farmer’s berries, scoffing them down close to her breakfasts, lunches and teas. She could not help herself, it was the natural colouring and fructose that tempted her, her growling appetite before her meals meant she must have a pre-breakfast, pre-lunch, or pre-dinner. And because these berries were seemingly available for free – not necessarily appropriate for munching by you and me – Molly the Lioness, so ravenous that she was, shovelled into her mouth the berries because, for her, their taste was positively assured.
She loved the tartness of the blue ones, the pink-reddened ones had a somewhat mulberry tasting hue and tongue twisting effect too, and the yellow ones, why, what a delight! Honey flavour dripping down her pipes. She had almost been caught once by the farmer, how embarrassing was that day, with paws dripping with sweetened juices she frantically then ran away. His eyes had spotted her form, and with a Whoop! Holler! and a sound of a flugelhorn, he attempted to rush toward the culprit who was chasing his berries amongst their tiny thorns.
Farmer was less than impressed, when he viewed the sticky mess, of the bushes where his berries should have laid, with sadness overwhelming him. His decision to return to the farm and moodily consume his whisky, drink after drink, he wondered to himself what could he do about this problem, what solution could commence when he would really start to think.
Firstly, he knew that the animal was a mammal, he could see the form running, so amber and agile. A head of luscious hair streaming from its head, but still, he could not view the entire animal in his mind’s eye, he had not enough details of it stored in his head. After all, it was merely a flash in a second, it was so very quick, jumping away from the berries that it so willingly would eat. Perhaps the Farmer would sacrifice and poison his prized berries, just to capture the culprit who seemed to be returning to them with great ease.
And so his plan was so: to sprinkle a natural remedy: vinegar, chilli water and aniseed from the stars, and sprinkle this concoction beneath the brushy vines, within a week he would view which animal had been taking his source of deepened farm made wines.
By week two, Molly had been poisoned so much that her belly ached and made her groan too, she could barely stumble to the vines of berries to have her fill. What she didn’t realise was that the fruits of the vine were what was making her violently paining and with time, she fainted by the bushes, much to the triumph of the Farmer in his knee high galoshes, clutching a bottle of his finest farm’s wine.
“So, it is you,” he said more to himself, than Molly, for there was nobody else. “What should I do with this?” He looked into her barely open eyes. Suddenly his heart ached, he realised what he had done, why had he needed to poison a hungry animal, for following her nose to a meal, to cause her to delightedly, excitedly, to celebrate her soon to be fulfilled appetite, toward the solution run? Imagine if he had been poisoned for wanting to eat his own meals, to satiate his growling stomach, to have his fill, and he realised that these bushes of berries were not all that important, though they were the small source of his wine income, he knew that were not the farm’s most highest sought after component.
And nursed Molly back to good health did the Farmer, he was there by her side, rehydrating her, feeding her, and he apologised a thousand times, for his errant behaviour, and wished nothing for her but goodness, and to be her now saviour. When she roused enough for her eyes to take their fill, of the man who was caring for her, her eyes filled to the brim, her feelings, emotions became warm then stilled, she did not understand why he was there, but she knew that she did most appreciate his care.
From now on, the Farmer allows Molly upon his farm every day, to enjoy the tasty berries, free, on display, to be eaten by her, always. She loves that she is now catered for and does not have to run, slink and jump, just to get a free pre-meal into her hungry chops.
© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock, also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.