The Wicked Witch of Pets - 1. The Wicked Witch of Pets

And How the Gods Got Even

By W. Randy Haynes
2006 Lambda Literary Finalist for the Mystery, Cajun Snuff

(Original Fairy Tale based upon the exaggerated true experiences
of the author, and dedicated to the loving memory of
Denny Sabus, a.k.a. Miss D.,
who gave the gift of laughter to all.)

Once upon a time in a land far away lived a red haired she-monster who despised pets. Oh, some less honest creatures may tell you that this story is an exaggeration, but if there is one single word that is not spot on, may the she monster herself devour me in my sleep.

I, an honest, handsome, and humble knight took shelter from the dark forces of potions, brews and inferior breeding in a medieval gay monastery near the Fortress Marienberg. The headmaster monk, Brother Barnabas, grilled me.

“Handsome Knight. I have but one rule.”

“What is that, kind Brother?”

“No women are ever allowed within these sacred halls. Can you promise me that?”

“It’s a solemn oath.”

A fellow traveler of like minded spirit and ways, Sir Thomas Basketus, had also taken shelter in the monastery on Mary Street, where a close-knit band of handsome Brothers wore robes tied with ropes and paid homage to their Holy of Holies. He looked to be a jolly fellow, so I asked him to join me in relishing oxtail and beer at the local tavern.

“Handsome Knight. There lives, close by, a creature most strange, indeed. I was cautioned of her by the good Brothers at the monastery. She frightens many, but if you are strong of character and have no pets, you will survive. We are invited to high tea in the morn’.”

“Sir Basketus, I’ve never been to a high tea, but I’m handsome, honest and humble, so I’m certain this creature will bid me welcome. I accept the invitation.”

A merry time we had that night as Sir Basketus drank the tavern nearly dry, gave away all his armor to the poor locals and pledged eternal friendships to strangers one and all. At closing time, a kindly barmaid gathered up his armor, and I threw the happy knight over my shoulder and poured him and his armor into his monastery crib. The barmaid remained outside, lest I break my oath. I then made especially sure his most interesting parts were tenderly tucked in, as any good knight would do.

The next day gloomy clouds hung on the horizon, as shady carrion birds circled above my head and black cats raced across our lane by the score. I had not noticed the subtle signs until decades later when Sir Basketus reminded me of the ominous path we had taken to meet the pet hating creature.

The door to the den stood foreboding the next morn’. Sir Basketus gave me a dreaded look as he hesitated to knock. “Sir Basketus. Don’t worry my happy friend. I’m also a brave and chivalrous knight. I will rap on the creature’s door.” The creature must have heard my heart pounding, because as I stepped forward and raised my shaky hand, the door squeaked open.

“Won’t you come in, my truffles,” sounded the ebullient, high, thin voice.

“Miss D. (some said it stood for Demonic others Divine but who am I to say?),” Sir Basketus began with a faint start, “I would like you to meet a fellow traveler, Handsome Knight. He rescued me from a thick but cheerful fog last eve.”

“How delightful! Thank you for coming, but I’m discomfited to find myself absent of tea. Perhaps you brave knights would like to join me in some hot cider of bloodroot. It’s quite special.” Her sinister crow made the hair on my arm and firm round buttocks stand erect. The large Adam’s apple suggested that Miss D. could actually be a he/she.

The creature had flaming red hair, skin so translucent that you could see her innards, and hands so delicate they were lighter than air and so absent of temperature a trail of fog followed her fingers. The den was bright and cheerful with nary a thing out of place; that is except one unfortunate speck of dust that had landed upon the table. Instantly, Miss D’s tongue shot out like a bull whip causing a loud clap of thunder and the dust speck disappeared down a black hole.

Sir Basketus, frozen against the wall in primal fear, accepted her offer. “Th…Th…thank you Miss D. I could use a tonic. Right, Handsome Knight?”

“Swell,” I answered, not wishing to offend the odd creature.

Miss D. poured the steaming cider from her gooseneck kettle of a, well…goose. The bird was so well preserved that not a single feather had been harmed. Its eyes sparkled of dark rubies. The goblets were fashioned from bull’s scrotums, and as Miss D. ran her finger around the rim of her goblet bull snorts echoed around the den, causing her to break out in a bedlam of cackles.

Soon, after a few sips of bloodroot cider I found myself in an underworld, floating above the squeals of animals galore. Miss D. flew above them on a broomstick shooting bolts of lightning from both eyes, terrifying the poor four legged creatures below.

Her cackles of glee pierced my ears as she sang:

“Happy, happy it makes me,

Seeing four leggeds try to flee.

No droppings, dust nor dander,

No fleas, droolings nor hair.

Spotless will be my lair.

Happy, Happy it makes me,

Seeing four leggeds try to flee.

No licking, jumping, nor clamor,

No stealing of my thunder,

I’m in control of this manor.”

By the time Sir Basketus and I awakened, Miss D. had polished our armor, washed the clothes off our backs, spit shined our boots and mated with three male goblins. I later learned that she was an expert in the mating habits of goblins and trolls.

“Oh, I love the warts on my goblin’s tools. They do pleasure me so.” Quite abruptly she returned to the present and leaned into in my face. “More bloodroot cider, brave knights? Perhaps a liver cookie?”

Feeling that something was amiss, I elected to go, sending a hidden signal to Sir Basketus to join me. As we returned to the protective walls of the monastery, the monks had completed their dinner and were in their nightly secret dungeon ceremony. Waves of spiritual ecstasy escaped the massive locked doors as the monks had apparently reached transcendence in unison with calls of, “My God” and “Holy Sepulcher” punctuating their worship. My heart was overjoyed to be back among the manly pure and out of the she creature’s discordant realm.

Many years had since passed since our days at the happy little monastery on Mary Street. Sir Basketus and I frequently reminisced about the loving Brothers who had taken us in and saved us from the grubby hordes of the smelly and artless.

Since then Sir Basketus and I had taken on many a good knight. We resided in a new world where beads flew through the air, share-a-tricks were as common as the nightingale’s song, floats passed us by with lures of mating calls, masked beings danced though the night, and we could piss on the streets with nary a care. Never had things been so good; that is, until the day the world played a trick on us, as she always tends to do.

Word spread through the new village streets like wildfire. A flaming red-haired witch, called Miss D., had arrived in our warm, dry, Ville, but alas, her days were now numbered. She was very aged and death stalked her like flies drawn to a rotting corpse. While she had enough gold to buy the entire kingdom, she couldn’t find a single common villager willing to comfort her as she waited for her final ride to wherever she monsters go.

“Handsome Knight. Let us go and bring good wishes to the poor dying creature,” pleaded the always compassionate Sir Basketus.

“What if we tread a bit of dirt into her lair, my happy friend? She will surely smite us. Have you forgotten her ways? ”

“Even monsters can amend, Handsome Knight. We can take off our boots and cleanse our feet before entering.”

We spent the rest of the day shining our armor and cleaning our clothes. Following a common bath to rinse off any lingering smells of animal odor, we had manicures and pedicures just outside the foreboding door, lest dirt gained entrance under our polished nails. I longed to be at the new art exhibit at the local museum, but Sir Basketus was determined to bring a bit of cheer to the cheerless.

Knock. Knock. No answer.

Knock. Knock. No answer.

“Handsome Knight, do you hear something? It sounds like the old witch’s voice. I shall never forget it. Maybe this was a dreadful idea. Let’s, instead, visit the museum then drink some grog and revel with our fellow knights.”

“Yes, I do hear it. But you forget, my friend, that we are brave knights and your charitable heart was, alas, right.” I opened the door then stepped in. The lair had the peculiar smell of citrus cleanser and death.

“Come here my sweet.” The ancient voice seemed to come from the rear stoop.

Pushing through to the back of the lair, we saw the rear door open. In walked Miss D. holding a small white canine: a pit bull terrier if I’d ever seen one.

“Ah, ha! I remember you two. Bloodroot cider and laughs in the old country,” she cowed with a tone much kinder than memory.

In fear for the dog’s life, I summoned the courage of a true knight. “Miss D. We pray that you not hurt the dog. We’ll take him, and you’ll never be bothered with the animal again.”

“Pish!,” parumped the old crone. “Conan was my neighbor’s pet in the old country beyond the millpond. That was before the two old neighborly knights passed. Together many a year, they were, and oh how they loved their animals, especially Conan. This morning I heard a peculiar noise in my walled garden, and I went out to appraise the ruckus. Hiding under my stoop, this one was. I called his name and the mutt came direct to me. Peculiar, since I gleefully tap danced on him as a pup while he screamed to the heavens.” Scratching her hair, “Mystery how he got here, though. I loathe pets so! Must I be burdened in my last days finding a home for the little rat?”

Conan licked her face, and oddly, I spied she didn’t wipe the spittle from her wrinkled cheek.

“Miss D.. Sir Basketus and I will gladly help find a home for little Mr. Conan. You shouldn’t be bothered with him in your fragile state.”

“Well, make it fast, my truffles. He can’t stay here for long!”

Word spread quickly that the cute, little terrier, who’d miraculously traveled half-way around the world and ended up in Miss D.’s secluded, fenced, garden needed a home. Daily, Sir Basketus and I heard petitions for the good natured pet. It seemed everyone in the Ville wanted him. Miss D.’s answer was always the same.

“No! They’re not fit to care for him. Are you blind or deft!? Can’t you see he needs a good home? Keep looking.” All he while, Conan lay sleeping as he blanketed her feet and drooled on the shiny floor planks below. Even more miraculously, a stray dog hair was seen, more than once, cluttering the immaculate abode.

Gremlins called on Miss D. less and less often. She seemed contended to share the pleasures of her confidence with Conan, recounting old tales of yesteryear to the adoring fellow as she gently stroked his back.

A few months later, Sir Basketus and I went to take Conan on his daily walk. Miss D. was virtually bedridden, and Conan rarely left her side, warming her frail, old body.

As we entered Miss D.’s bedroom, a beam of luminosity pierced the room lighting up the bed while Conan rested on Miss D.’s stomach. She opened her eyes and looked beyond to confines of the room to a spectacle Sir Basketus and I could not view.

“So it was you two old neighbors,” cracked the dying woman. “I’m so sorry, dear fellows. Mean I was to your animals, especially to your Conan here when he was no more than a whiff of a pup. I’m in your debt forever.” Her smile transformed her face into a countenance of perfect gratitude. In an instant her eyes welled with tears. Up crawled her free arm toward the ceiling, then floated downward -- lightly resting on her majestic friend. Eyes now dulled, life had abandoned the one we once called a monster.

We slipped out into the hallway, companion soothing companion. It wouldn’t have been knightly to allow Conan to glimpse our grief. To imagine that all this emanated from the kindness of the Mary Street brothers in the happy little gay monastery. A lifelong friendship of brotherly love between Sir Basketus and myself, a chance meeting with a she monster who was not the evil creature we imagined her to be, and the miracle of a hardened heart turned to mush by the thing she once hated to most. Mostly, the dramatic stories and subsequent laughter over the many years that we gleaned from the he/she monster, now turned angel.

“Handsome Knight, you and I should make a home for Conan. I’m certain Miss D. would approve.”

“How right of you, Sir Basketus. How right of you.”

We stepped back into the death chamber. Miss D. rested: a vision in perfect peace on clouds of fair linens. Conan, however, was nowhere to be found. He seemed to have magically traveled again to a more exalted place, where those who loved him the most awaited -- mission accomplished. In his place, as proof Sir Basketus and I hadn’t gone bonkers, but a single, short, white dog hair resting on Miss D.’s gown.

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