The Prophet Lactic

I met a cow who could tell the future once. She told me she called herself the Prophet Lactic, and when I pressed her as to why she said, ‘because I will only tell you certain things’. She also offered me a drink of milk, but I had to decline owing to my intolerance.

I replied that I was the Poet Prosthetic, but she saw no humour in this and continued chewing her cud. She wasn’t very forthcoming, so I asked her to tell me something from the future. She told me that she was going to die a week later. She seemed unnaturally calm about this, and I told her so. She just raised an eyebrow and said, ‘well it’s hardly a surprise now.’

‘But I don’t need to be psychic to know your next question. It’s because of my cheese you see. Have you heard that eating cheese late at night will give you nightmares, or strange dreams?’

I nodded, already suspecting where this was going.

She just nodded back. After a couple more chews she added, ‘The farmer has suspected for a while. He’s been making cheese from all of us individually to find me. Next week he will eat a rather formidable cheddar (if I do say so myself), and the next day I will be slaughtered, processed for meat and kept in his freezer.’

‘He’s going to eat you? But why not just eat your cheese? You should talk to him about this.’

‘Unfortunately not everyone is as accepting of a talking cow as you are, Mr Prosthetic.’ I, of course, was gong to interrupt and tell her that wasn’t my real name, but she continued on with a uniquely bovine panache. ‘I will try and explain this to him tomorrow, but that will only confirm his fears. He won’t eat me intentionally of course. He’s a bit scared of me, you know? In five years a power cut causes his wife to make stew out of me. And then he will have a most interesting week.’ There was a trace of a smile on her lips at this.

I was about to respond when I felt a tugging at my trousers. I looked down to discover two sheep trying to graze on me. I shooed them away, but they merely stopped a few feet away and stared at me. The inside of their horizontal pupils seemed to tilt ever so slightly downwards in what I assumed was amusement.

‘Don’t mind them, they’ll get bored soon enough. The car will confuse them and they’ll forget all about you.’ I was about to ask which car she was referring to - none were in sight - but perhaps you are quicker than I. It came round the corner, and honked it’s horn, music and vernacular flooding from the crack of a window. And sure enough the sheep moved to one side, looked at each other, and strolled away as the car sped off once more.

‘You should ask it now, he’ll be here soon.’ I furrowed my brows instinctively, although my sub-conscious had already filed a request for processing time with the cerebral cortex and was hastily taking a poll amongst it’s neurons for the final shortlist.

Many obvious questions were discarded; money wasn’t important to me, I put great stock in the system of mortality and I was already in love so I asked - ‘What will become of my works?’

The answer was strange, but this was no matter: ‘Why your works will ensure that a great many authors have their works published to a high quality. You will also feed and care for two children, and raise them well enough for your standards.’ Anticipating my interjection, she continued, ‘You mean your words of course, and not your works. They will be read by some people to access something they keep in themselves. Noting trapped, or that they couldn’t access another way, you understand, but they will use your words. Your name is well chosen.’

I could see the farmer and his dog coming towards the cow and myself rather quickly and decided it would be best for both of us if we stopped the conversation. ‘After all, you wouldn’t want people to think you went around talking to cows, would you? I’m not sure that everyone will like your words by the way. Does that matter?’ And with a twinkle in her eye and the trace of a smile again, she turned and walked slowly, but implacably away from the farmer. I greeted the farmer, who waved back. And then I watched as the cow lead the farmer round and round the field at the same slow pace, refusing to be coaxed or led as the farmer desired.

It took me several minutes to realise the farmer’s dog had replaced the sheep and was sitting at my feet, watching the proceedings with the same amusement I felt. Once or twice he barked what I assume was encouragement, when it looked like she might acquiesce. Eventually she got bored, or finally took pity on the farmer, and headed towards the milking shed - without being led, of course. I patted the dog on the head, which he seemed to appreciate and as I straightened up to leave he looked up at me: ‘She’ll never get tired of that, you know.’

And with that he shot off in pursuit of his apparently ignorant owner.