Inka and the Cucumber

Inka the goat had escaped. Inka escaped most days. It was her hobby.

In the garden, Inka found something long. Green. Cold. A little bumpy on the outside.

She tried it.

She tried more of it.

She had decided, after ten minutes of trying it, that it was her favourite thing in the world.

"Inka!" called the farmer. "Come back! That's a cucumber!"

Inka did not know what a cucumber was. She kept eating.

"Inka, those cucumbers are for Sunday lunch!"

Inka did not know what Sunday was either, and she had her opinions about lunch — which were that this was lunch, and it was hers, and she was eating it.

The farmer ran across the garden. Inka, who was small but determined, ran the other way.

She ran with the cucumber sticking out of her mouth on both sides.

She ran behind the henhouse. Behind the apple tree. Past the very surprised duck.

Eventually, behind the woodpile, she finished the cucumber, every bit, and licked the green smudge off her chin.

"Tomorrow," she thought, walking back to the gate, "tomorrow I will escape again, and I will find another one."

She did, too.