Let the Cow Chips Fall Where They May
Short Fiction by Abram Dress
An old farmer sat in a worn wooden chair atop a bluff, looking down on the sleepy farming village, utterly oblivious to the drama about to unfold. He puffed on a corncob pipe, the smoke from the pipe mirroring the smoke lines coming from the chimneys in the village. His worn linens spoke of times good and bad in equal measure. But this story doesn’t really begin with that farmer, though he is an important catalyst. Nor does this story begin in the village whose residents were just awakening to begin their pastoral lives on this cool fall morning.
Near the farmer, atop that bluff, far above the town, stood four pastures. Stone fences divided them into equal quarters, and in each quarter stood an animal or small group of animals. They had just arrived in their pastures that morning, and they had much to say.
That, dear reader, is where our story begins. Don't worry, the farmer is a bit of a bore, anyway.
“Our field’ll be the cleanest by far when we’re done,” said the eldest Gruff brother. His two siblings baaad in agreement, wiggling their little white beardlings as they chewed chunks of leather or metal or glass. Their field was a midden, weedy and trash-filled with only the occasional hint of anything edible to the other contestants.
“Yooou can eat anything,” Kashcow gently mumbled, “but each of my stomachs is as big as any one of you. And I have fooour of them.” She slowly looked around at her field, which was lusciously green with the densest of green grasses and hay growth. “I have much mooore to eat, but eat it I shall, and far before you boooys finish your task.”
“Baaa humbug,” said Fluffs, leader of the taut brigade of sheep who manned the third field. “You’re but a single cow, unable to divide the workload in a manner that will result in success. And you Gruff boys have never worked together and you won’t start now.” Fluffs looked over the small herd of ewes already nibbling gently at their designated sections of the weedy but lush field in which they were stationed. “We eat as a team, and we will win this competition as a team.”
The final competitor lay on his side in the center of his field, purring and nibbling at a long strand of grass. “I figure you’ll all win, but this makes my tummy feel so good that I’m just going to enjoy the experience.” Prettywhiskers continued nibbling, eyes closed, as the other contestants glared.
“You don’t even belong here, dumb cat,” said the eldest Gruff.
“Yooou’re a dear, Prettywhiskers, but you are also such a poooser,” Kashkow mooed with affection. “Why are yooou even in this competition?”
“Yeah, you don’t belong amongst serious competitors like us!” Fluffs angrily bleated.
Prettywhiskers flicked his tail in annoyance, rolled to his feet, and sauntered towards the group of competitive herbivores. “I’m not a …” He paused, hacked, coughed, arched, spewed, then continued. “I’m not a poser. I probably just have different methods than you.” He purred. “And the grass does make my tummy feel so good.”
The eldest Gruff spat and glared at the pile of kitty barf. “Obviously.”
Kashkow smiled at her dear friend with the combination of love, compassion, and disappointment that defined most of those smiles. “Oooh Prettywhiskers. I’m afraid you are in ooover your head here, my dear.”
As the competitors return to their respective fields, it occurs to this narrator that my dear reader may not be aware of the annual eating competition the villagers presented to the local farmers. How would you know of it? You don’t live in the village. You don’t tend to the widespread farmland surrounding it. You don’t fight with your fellow farmers for the prime tracts of land that are immediately adjacent to the village, where it is easiest to procure machinery and workers to tend the fields. It doesn’t matter to you who wins the competition and is awarded a large swatch of that prime land.
But if you were a farmer in that little village, the competition would be a big deal. A big deal indeed.
And you would hire the best possible animal representatives to clear the field to which you’d been assigned. Or, if you were perhaps something of an idiot, a cat who seemed to have a 'special arrangement' with the grass.
“Why would any farmer in their right mind hire a cat to clear a field?” asked the eldest Gruff as the various animals nestled down into their evening resting places.
His brothers chewed and nodded, glaring with their creepy little goat eyelets. (The younger Gruffs rarely spoke, ever since an incident with a bridge and a troll some time previous.) Fluffs and his hard working crew all nodded in agreement. Kashkow shrugged, but didn’t speak. She was already closing her eyes for the night and didn’t have time for the smaller beast’s bitching.
Even Prettywhiskers shrugged. “If I was a farmer, I sure wouldn’t hire me.”
“My farmer has won the competition three years in a row,” Fluffs said. “It doesn’t even make sense that any of the rest of you are here. You don’t stand a chance.”
Prettywhiskers purred a smile. “You sure sound like you’ve got it in the bag, Fluffs. It’s only the first day and your field already looks well-trimmed. We should probably just all give up, right Gruff?”
The eldest Gruff spat and cursed. I won’t tell you what he said because goats are very proficient cursers and I don’t want to offend my dear reader’s sensibilities.
But it was bad.
I mean to say, goats put sailors to shame when it comes to cursing.
But after he’d finished cursing, the eldest Gruff said, “Last year I almost won, and that was just me, what with both the younger Gruffs being in lock up.. With all three of us you don’t have a chance.”
“What about the year before, and the year before that?” Fluffs laughed a bleating cruel laugh. “All three of you couldn’t beat us, and you’re not going to…” Fluffs was joined in his arguments by his crew, and soon the sheep and goats were bleating empty threats and promises over the tops of each other.
Prettywhiskers hopped up on the fence that separated his field from Kashcow’s and smiled down at his sleeping friend. He curled into a ball and tightly wound his tail around his ears until the arguing goats and sheep faded into the dull distance. He fell asleep purring.
You’re probably wondering, dear reader, how this competition even works. It’s quite simple, really. Any number of farmers may place bids, but only the four highest bidders are granted entry into the contest. Each of the winning bidders is assigned, through drawing lots, one of the four fields in the competition area. The winners may then hire a team of local animals who must clear-cut the assigned field within one week. The farmer’s team which does the best job, as judged by the town elders, is granted the lush farmland adjacent to the town to work for the next season.
“Such a goood night’s sleep sure does help my digestion,” Kashkow said through a mouthful of green. She’d arisen with the sun and had already made good progress on her field.
Prettywhiskers had also arisen early, and nibbled and barfed in equal measure. He was not making good progress on his field, but that was all part of the plan. You see, the only thing Prettywhiskers hated more than working was losing.
The goats and sheep awoke later, exhausted from their long night arguing with each other. With much bickering and groaning, they all got to work on their respective pastures.
Sometime in the afternoon, Prettywhiskers meandered out of his field and down the long path leading to the village.
“Where do you think you’re going, lazybones?” bleated Fluffs, pausing his synchronized chewing to watch the cat’s departure. The Gruff brothers also stopped their haphazard munching to observe.
Prettywhiskers stretched languidly. “Just going for a stroll. All that grass has made me a bit… *indisposed*.” He gave a dramatic shudder.
Kashkow, without lifting her head from the verdant feast before her, gave a soft “Moooo.”
“See?” said the eldest Gruff. “Even the cow thinks you’re useless.”
Prettywhiskers just winked, a gesture unseen by the goat, and continued his leisurely walk. He ambled past the judging platform where a few of the town elders were already observing the progress. He paused to rub against their legs, purring loudly, before continuing down the path and out of sight.
The sun was almost set when Prettywhiskers returned, dragging a large bottle sloshing with amber liquid. “I’m really sorry about the distractions yesterday, and for wandering off without saying goodbye. Well, sort of sorry. I brought an apology gift, which is even better than just saying sorry.”
It turns out goats and sheep are not as smart as they look when it comes to free booze. And honestly, do they really look very smart anyway? So, do goats and sheep like whiskey?
They do.
And while the Prettywhiskers and the Gruffs and Fluffs and his minions sipped and laughed the night away, Kashkow slept soundly.
The next several days, the scene repeated itself. The sheep and goats would sleep in, recovering from their late night, while Kashkow got immediately to work. Prettywhiskers would nibble a bit, then dramatically declare his digestive distress and wander off towards the village. He’d return hours later. The other competitors judged and huffed, but Prettywhiskers remained unfazed. He’d simply purr and claim the grass was too rich for his delicate constitution. And nobody could really stay mad, for he always returned with some gift or story to entertain his co-competitors.
As the week wore on, the contrast between the fields became stark. Fluffs and his team of sheep were making steady progress, their field looking neatly trimmed and even, but far from complete. The Gruff brothers, despite their initial bluster, were still mostly surrounded by weeds and discarded junk, their efforts disorganized and inefficient.
Kashkow, however, was a force of nature. Her massive frame and multiple stomachs allowed her to devour vast quantities of the lush vegetation in her field. By the fifth day, her pasture was nearly bare, a testament to her tireless eating. And to all the rest she was getting each night.
The town elders made their rounds each evening, their faces inscrutable as they surveyed the varying levels of progress. Fluffs would puff out his chest, gesturing to his neatly cleared sections. The eldest Gruff would spit and insist they were just getting started. Kashkow would simply continue to eat, her progress speaking for itself.
And Prettywhiskers? He was rarely in his field when the elders came by, often “recovering” in the village.
On the final morning of the competition, the contestants gathered near the judging platform, their fields a clear indication of their efforts. Fluffs’ field was respectable, but not complete, the sheep looking pleased with their teamwork. The Gruff brothers’ field was a disaster, a patchy mess of half-eaten weeds and scattered debris. Kashkow’s field was almost entirely bare, the ground showing through the short stubble of grass. Prettywhiskers’ field looked as it had on the first day, a few nibbled patches the only evidence of his presence.
The town elders conferred quietly for a few moments before the head elder stepped forward. “After careful consideration,” he announced, his voice carrying across the quiet fields, “the winner of this year’s competition is…” He paused for dramatic effect. “…Kashkow!”
A low “Moooo” of satisfaction rumbled from the cow.
Fluffs bleated in protest, and the eldest Gruff launched into another impressive string of curses. Prettywhiskers, who had finally deigned to appear, stretched and yawned as if he’d just woken from a pleasant nap.
As the other contestants voiced their complaints, Kashkow ambled over to the fence separating her field from Prettywhiskers’. She lowered her head and nudged the seemingly indolent cat affectionately. “We diiid it, my dear friend,” she murmured, her voice just loud enough for Prettywhiskers to hear.
Prettywhiskers finally opened his eyes, a sly glint in their depths. He hopped onto the fence and rubbed against Kashkow’s massive head. “Indeed we did,” he purred, a hint of smugness in his tone. “All that ‘indisposition’ really paid off, didn’t it?”
The other animals stared in bewildered silence as the realization dawned. Prettywhiskers’ frequent absences, his dramatic displays of illness – they weren’t signs of weakness, but calculated diversions. While the other contestants focused on their own fields and occasionally bickered amongst themselves, Prettywhiskers was subtly disrupting their efforts. Meanwhile, Kashkow, with her immense appetite and undisturbed rest, was free to devour her field at an astonishing rate.
The old farmer on the bluff chuckled, the smoke from his pipe curling into the still air. He’d seen this strategy before, though never executed with such feline finesse. Let the cow chips fall where they may, indeed. And sometimes, a little catnip can help them fall in just the right direction.
–END
Author’s Note: This was for a Writing Battle competition. When I got the prompts (fairy tale, competition, a farmer) I just had to revisit some old friends. And thus Prettywhiskers and his lovely bovine bride undertook another adventure.
Copyright 2025 Abram Dress
Great story, Abe!!
Love this one!