Mrs. Dunn is Bumfuzzled [Earnest the pig steps in to help, of course]

I was sitting on the big rock that was lovingly placed by Mister Dunn near the grave of White Dog, under Old Apple. I come there often to talk to White Dog and listen to the birds in Old Apple. Even though White Dog is deep in the ground, it’s like he’s lying at my feet, just like he did for so many years before he died.

As I sat on my rock, having a good cry over the death of Poetry the old goat, I felt an arm around my shoulder. It was Earnest the pig. He had come by in search of wind fall apples from the tree, but instead he found a sobbing Mrs. Dunn.

“So many tears, Mrs. Dunn. For what do they fall?” asked the always empathetic pig. Only Earnest could turn my sobs into prose.

“Poetry’s death has left me feeling.... ” I couldn’t find the right words.

“Leaving you in a bumfuzzle?” the pig asked.

“I’m not sure, what is a bumfuzzle?” I asked.

“A state of confusion, a perplexing time,” the pig explained.

“Ah, yes, that seems right,” I said. “I think maybe the whole world is in a bumfuzzle.”

Pickles the goat suddenly appeared. And where Pickles was, that meant a whole bunch of short statured goats were close behind...and one by one they all appeared at my feet-Puddles, Hannah, Elsa, Pancakes, Posey, Mrs. Puddles, Ollie, Gracie, Lewisa, Olive Oil, Lulu, Clover and the two new trouble makers, Hank and Frank.

But there was one name that was not there...Poetry. Poetry had died a few days earlier. She was the eldest of the elders and the role model of how to age with determination and grace. She taught many youngsters manners and common sense. She was like the human auntie that always gave you sensible Christmas gifts-like pencils and paper, but slipped a $5 bill in there too. 

“Why are you crying, Mrs. Dunn?” asked Pickles.

“My dear, she is in a bumfuzzle,” said the pig.

Everyone gasped, and then grew very quiet, and they all came to rest at my feet, staring up at me without speaking a word. This was highly unusual.

Poetry understood being in a bumfuzzle-it comes with any life- but she chose to work through it in her matter of fact way. “To overcome bumfuzzlement, find a task needing to be done, and be grateful you have the life to do it. Humming helps too.” 

I stopped crying and went on further, “You’re going about a day, doing your best, and suddenly, someone...dies and then all the things you set out to do mean nothing, absolutely nothing.” 

“I’m only 3 months old, I don’t know anyone that’s died,” said little Hank.

“You will, soon enough,” I said. And Hannah started to cry, and then Hank, and one by one everyone was crying due to my bumfuzzlement.

Earnest the pig jumped up and said to everyone, “Remember what Poetry taught us? We need a task!”

“A task where we can easily hum!” said Pickles.

I thought for a moment. “Well, I need to muck out the pony stalls,” I said.

And I grabbed a rake and began mucking stalls, and all around me were a bunch of little goats, and one pig, humming.