Everyone, except Ada, knew Rosie to be just a pig. Ada’s ideal
retirement for Rosie was to explore the ancient land of dragons by day,
visit the kitchen for under-the-table dinner scraps, then dream by the
fireplace.

At breakfast one dank April morning, Grandma suggested they have roast
pork for Sunday lunch, complete with the traditional two vegetables and
brown gravy made from the juices of the roasting meat. It was while
Grandma chatted on about where she would insert the large rotisserie rod
when Ada ran from the kitchen with Rosie close at her heels. “It will
help tenderise the old sow,” Grandma continued.

Grandpa just wanted to take the old pig to the abattoir to recoup some
of his loses. “After all, this is a working farm,” he muttered to
himself as he shut the back door on his way out. His eyes scanned the
countryside for the two explorers. Despite himself, Grandpa envied the
little girl. He had grown up in Beatrix Potter country with fantasies
the author had created in the stunning Lake District.
Bunnies and kittens would be more appropriate for Ada’s school holiday fun.
He shook his head. “Maybe we should have stayed in Ambleside and took
up trout farming.” He squinted into the fog that had settled over the
bogs. He recalled his father’s favourite story that dated back to the
6th century. What was it, again? Oh, yes. St George rescued a young maiden by slaying a terrifying fire-breathing dragon. He slipped his hands into his warm pockets and wandered toward the main road.

Rosie was wearing an old house frock belonging to Grandma. It dragged
along behind her in the dirt. Toilet roll tubes covered her pointy ears,
and three black bows were tied to a lifeless tail. Ada‘s Wellingtons
poked out from under her flowing medieval princess costume as they
plodded down Old Kent Road. Her beaded necklace bounced in time with her
head which was donned with a cone-shaped hat.

They stopped at the red telephone box just beyond the crossroads. “Oh
Rosie, how could Grandma say such horrid things. I won’t let them eat
you.” Ada stomped her foot splashing great blobs of mud onto their
clothes. She stepped into the telephone box with Rosie close behind.

Lifting the telephone receiver, Ada dialled and waited.

Rosie grunted, wriggled and squeezed until she was jammed between Ada’s knees.

“Hello,” Ada shouted into the mouthpiece. “Please help me. They’re going to kill Rosie!”

The operator asked questions while Rosie fidgeted within the confinement of the telephone box.

“Please, come quickly,” Ada pleaded. “Lookout, Rosie!” With her finger
in one ear she tried to listen. “No, it’s Rosie. Ow! Stop!”

The weight against Ada’s legs forced her downward until she straddled
Rosie. They both fell sideways and their contorted bodies tangled with
their costumes. Except for their legs, they were stuck. With the coiled
telephone cord caught around her ankles, Ada continued to shout into the
mouthpiece.

Grandpa considered the crossroad signs. Their farm was located two miles
due east of the abattoir between Dover and Holyhead. He sniffed the
thick foul air. “This neighbourhood is likened to the cheapest property
on a Monopoly board.”

At that moment he heard an ear-piercing squeal, then a shout from Ada.
He bolted toward the sound. Grandpa stopped in mid-step; his neck craned
forward. There was someone or something in the telephone box—there were
too many legs to count. He saw what looked like horns and a tail with
blades. There was a lot of banging and bumping going on behind that mud
and moss streaked glass.

“Oh my, it looks like a dragon!”

Ada screamed again, jolting Grandpa from his trance. To avoid crushing
his granddaughter, he slowly manoeuvred the door open. He reached in to
grab Rosie’s tail and dragged her squealing from the booth.

Later, after the local Bobby wrote his report—and had a good laugh,
Grandpa and Ada headed back to the farmhouse. Rosie walked noiselessly
behind Ada, her head held low.

“Did you know, Ada, only 45-50% of animals at the abattoir can be turned
into edible meat products, 15% is waste, and the remaining 40-45% is
turned into by-products like bath soap, candles and glue? ‘Glue’ kinda
suits our Rosie.”

“But Grandpa…”

“It’s okay, honey. I rather liked saving my princess from the dragon.”
He winked at Ada. “I could be St. George. But first, we had better
organise a chicken or two for Sunday lunch.”

—————————————————————————————————————–

Authors Notes:

This fable is set in the north-east of England between Dover and
Holyhead. Both are beautiful cities priding themselves in tourism. Yet,
the road that links the two cities is a common bog region where only an
abattoir, industrial warehouses and a few scattered farms exist.

Wellingtons

are waterproof boots and are most often made from rubber.

A
Bobby is an English slang term for policeman, usually a constable.

A
bog refers to a quagmire or mire. A wetland type land that accumulates acidic peat and dead plant material—usually mosses.

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About Chrissy Siggee

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