Hidden Christmas

“Gonks have a hard life … especially bald ones,” Footyr opined to no-one in particular – since he was on his own at the top of a pile of manure. Even the cows had ambled down to the northeast corner of the pasture. It was close to feeding time and they crowded around the access point, prevented from pressing against the wire fence only by the trickling ditch-burn and the small voltage passing through the top wire.

“We get no royalties from those damn toys they made of us,” he continued, ignoring that his follically challenged pate disqualified him from the stereotype … and any copyright remuneration.

He reached into the potato sack which sat silently beside him and pulled forth a tiny plastic soldier … such as a certain aircraft-model company produced for children … and bit its head off. (Gonks have very sharp teeth and claws – bald or not.)

“That’s what I think of humans and their toys – but especially what I think of the Scottish wag who decided to take our name in vain. Ugh, the minds of the creatures!”

He stood up and pulled the paper costume pants he’d made for himself over his greenish-stained bottom and tied them in place with a snapped bootlace. Then he shrugged on the bright red card he’d fashioned into a coat. His shiny hooves looked just like boots.

He knew he stank from the pile, but that was all part of the plan.

He thumped home the jet-black upholstery nails into his chest to hold the coat in place. (Real gonks, being akin to golem, feel no pain.)

He smiled as the famous human children’s TV phrase came to mind: Don’t try this at home!

Hidden Christmas

Then he tacked the purloined – so to speak – cat hair to his skull and face, judicially arranging it until he looked like a demented Saint Nicholas before his hair has lost its colour.

Footyr heard a cat wail. Likely the one with a cold backside. He hadn’t had time to gather hair from furballs.

He hoisted his sackful of plastic figurines.

“Time for Scenty Claws to deliver presents to all those gonk children,” he said, taking a few purposeful steps before realizing he was lacking a dramatic exit.

He sighed, dismounted the manure and trudged towards the next field.

“It might take a while.”