Sunday, September the 4th, 2005

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Horse Begone

I met her on a Monday and my heart stood still.

“Da doo ron ron, horse begone!” she cried. It was an incantation, in a field, and sure enough, the horse to whom she addressed these words turned and cantered away, until it could no longer be seen in the mist and the drizzle.

Somebody told me that her name was Jill, but before I could ask her, she was casting her spells again.

“Hoo-di hoo-di woo, cow begone!” she yelled, at a cow, but this time without the desired effect. The cow just stared back at her, chewing its cud, the way cows do.

“Hoo-di hoo-di woo, cow begone!” she repeated, a little desperately, I thought. If I'd been the cow, I would have sensed a moment of panic, of confidence drained. Jill—if Jill was her name—repeated her incantation too soon. The cow did not move.

So I took the opportunity to stride purposefully across the field in my creaking black boots until I was face to face with her.

“Somebody told me that your name is Jill,” I said, essaying a bow as if I were some sort of Regency fop.

“My name is not Jill,” she hissed, “I am the Woohoohoodiwoodadooronron Woman. Fop begone!” and I found myself propelled by some eldritch force into a weird netherworld where I languish to this day, my only companion the horse. There is no sign of the cow.