FRANK THE GOAT
by Stanley Lieber
Frank the goat sat down in the grass. Dizzy. The dust had crept into his nose.
Bear continued to rummage, in search of his lost doll. Where could she be? Bear could not push through the mud in his mind. Dirt, not mud. Dust. Bear knew the proper words for things.
Frank observed the commotion.
Bear could smell the rain, on its way from the west. And now, the black smoke. This unsettled him. He was becoming grumpy. Where was his doll?
“ЖЖ,” said the doll.
“Harumph!” grumbled Bear. He retrieved the sullen arrangement of rags from the memory cache. Soiled, which agitated her. She twisted and turned, more than once slipping from his grasp.
Still, he persisted.
Bear was firm.
“Time!” exclaimed the doll, straightening her dress, brushing the dust from her white pinafore and black bows.
Bear could not understand, but the road, and soon the debris from the crash site crunched and crumpled underfoot. The doll took inventory as Bear sniffed the air. The weather, the weather.
Frank stirred. His wounds had not healed. He would tolerate a distraction, especially now. The men had cut out his kidney but left his brain. So, what news?
Frank puzzled as Bear ambled by, clutching his doll, trailing debris from the crash site.
Here was a spectacle.