John Metcalf: The Museum at the End of the World

As Forde and Sheila approached the buses, they saw the last two dogs, back legs splayed, squirming and scrunching themselves under the edge of their bus.

“Why are they getting under there?”

He shrugged.

“What if they get run over?”

“I expect they’ve done it before.”

Sheila bent and banged the side of the bus with her umbrella handle.A ferocious snarl ripped back.

“Perhaps,” said Forde, “he’s taken up a querencia.”

“A what?”

“It’s when a bull decides....”

“I’m not having Hemingway,” she said, “before lunch.” She reversed her umbrella again.

“If something of that size has taken a fancy to the underneath of the bus, I personally, would be somewhat circumspect about challenging it.”

“I’m not challenging him. I just don’t want him to...”

“It’s not important whether you’re challenging him or not,” said Forde. “It’s what he thinks you’re doing.”

“This is a ridiculous conversation,” said Sheila.

“And especially,” added Forde, “if you are armed only with a collapsible umbrella.”

“WHY,” said Woolly Bear, “IS THAT WOMAN HITTING THE BUS?”

“Snails!” said Sheila.

On the bus once again and driving along the coast road, Forde started reading the daily bulletin. “We’re promised ‘unique Crimean wines’,” he said. “Followed by lunch on the Nabereshna Lenina featuring ‘wholesome Ukrainian cuisine.’ Want to take bets?”