Harm on the Range

By Pamela Love

“Harmony, we don’t have room for…” Shading my eyes against the sunset, I counted the bison supping on my black-eyed Susans. “Seventeen buffalo to roam. Our home is not a home on the range.”

“But Mom, they need somewhere to live.” Her blue eyes pleaded with me. “And they’re itsy-bitsy bison.” She hummed the “Itsy-Bitsy Spider” tune as she bent way down—she was almost six feet tall—to pat one, giggling as it charged through the curtain of her long blonde hair.

“See how much she loves animals, Jennifer? They’re a present,” Lyle said. My brother slouched against the trellis, his purple hair matching the clematis he was mussing.

Annoyed, I counted to seventeen again, this time to keep my temper. Minifauna, genetically engineered miniature versions of large mammals, were created to fit into shrinking natural habitats. Instead, they’ve become pets for people like Lyle, who have far more money than sense. In his case, the money was from a lottery. He’d originally bought the herd because he loved Westerns. He’d grown tired of the responsibility, though.

“Sorry,” I said, “but unlike your mansion’s ample acreage, our townhome’s ‘yard’ isn’t much bigger than an extra-large pizza. They need more—Harm, your uke!”

Too late. A bison knocked over my daughter’s ukulele, which she’d left leaning against a lawn chair when Lyle showed up with the herd. She ran to collect her instrument, panicking a dozen more bison. They stampeded over the ukulele’s neck, damaging it beyond repair. It was a wonder they didn’t hurt themselves stumbling over the strings.

Tears rolled down Harmony’s cheeks as she picked up her instrument. I gave her a hug and my brother a glare. “Let’s help your uncle put the bison back in his van, Harm.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“Because he brought them here, re—” I bit back the rest of “remember.” Harmony couldn’t. She’d hit her head while practicing a dive last year. Ever since, her short-term memory was permanently set at around thirty minutes.

With Harmony’s half-hearted help, we rounded up the bison. I hated disappointing her. She’d been working on her master’s in zoology before the accident, hoping to open an animal refuge someday. Animal therapy had helped her recover to the extent that she had. But there wasn’t room for this herd here.

After loading the last crate, Lyle, sour-faced, slammed the door. “You’re breaking her heart, Jennifer.”

I sighed. “Tomorrow morning, she won’t remember this.” I glanced over my shoulder at Harmony, turning her ukulele this way and that, trying to puzzle out what happened. “I’ll send you the uke bill. Look, if there’s some way she can help minifauna without keeping them on our little lawn, I’ll think about it. But promise me—no more bison in my backyard.”

He nodded glumly as he pulled out his keys.

***

Why are there mini mountain goats on the staircase? This was not something I normally pondered before my morning cup of coffee.

With care, I edged past the trio. They were remarkable jumpers, springing up and down from one step to another, even though each step was twice their height. Every time they landed, it sounded like a pixie knocking on wood for luck.

One goat touched down on my slipper, his white hair roughly the same texture as the slipper’s pink polyester fluff. Somehow, he still didn’t fall. Now, that’s surefooted.

Here’s something else that’s sure: Lyle and I need to have a long talk. I sighed. This is what I get for sleeping in on a Saturday morning. My brother knew his niece was always up early, so he’d used the opportunity to talk her into taking them. Not that she’d need much convincing.

“See the goats, Mom?” Harmony stuck her head out of the kitchen. Her t-shirt was neon orange. I almost squinted at its dawn-bright radiance. “Uncle Lyle left them some hay.” Then she hummed a song about a goatherd.

How on Earth did she remember—oh. I rolled my eyes. Lyle probably programmed her phone to ping her with feeding instructions. I did something like that myself sometimes, but Harm often forgot where her phone was, just as she’d forgotten about her ukulele. A quick glance at the base of the railing, bits of hay here and there, showed the goats did indeed have their breakfast before me.

I gritted my teeth. Gotta admit, these goats aren’t in the yard. So he hadn’t broken his promise. But they still had to go. Should’ve put him on speed dial—wait.

Maybe there was someone else I could call.

***

A week later, I sat sipping coffee as my brother whined over the phone. “Aw, Jennifer, this’ll be so expensive!” I could picture Lyle’s lips twisting like licorice sticks.

“Consider the contribution to Maxwell’s Minifauna Refuge a tax write-off. Besides, you said you want to help Harmony. That fee helps support a program for volunteers with disabilities. So quit complaining.” I ended the call, temporarily blocking Lyle’s number.

To keep Harmony more oriented, her psychiatrist recommended a video loop on her tablet when she was home showing her working at the refuge. At the moment, Harm was watching herself fill three frying pans from a hose. Moments later, the “itsy-bitsy” bison galloped up, ready to guzzle. Maxwell’s most enthusiastic volunteer burst into laughter, both on screen and at our kitchen counter.

Our two newly-adopted tabbies, orange and gray, crouched at Harmony’s feet. Their tails lashed as she ran the can opener. While they weren’t technically emotional support animals, caring for them—with some scheduling support from me—did my daughter a world of good. “There you are!” she chirped, setting their bowls down. “No, uh”—she glanced at the cat’s collars—“Deer, don’t swipe Antelope’s breakfast.”

I smiled. Sometimes it’s good to hear a discouraging word.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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