Paris would not be hurried

Paris had found a patch of grass she liked. Not the greenest. Not the nearest. Just the one she had decided on, which for Paris is the only kind that counts.

Canberra had already started the line for the far gate. London was in it. Nairobi was trying to be in two places. Paris was in none of them. Paris was eating, slowly, as if the day had been arranged around her mouth.

The bull bellowed that everyone should move now, immediately, the best moving, historic moving. Paris chewed. She would not be hurried. She has never been hurried. The last dog who tried it still thinks about it on quiet afternoons.

Spike tried it anyway. Faster is his whole idea of a plan. He circled. He darted. He put on the stare. Paris blinked at him the way you blink at a fly that has not yet earned a tail-swish.

He ran around her twice. She took another mouthful. He ran around her the other way, in case the first way had been the wrong way. It had not helped the wheelbarrow either.

Suzy sat down. Not far. Just where Paris would want to go after the grass was finished, which was the shade by the trough, which was always where Paris went next. Suzy has watched this. Suzy watches everything.

Spike sat too, eventually, because even a kelpie runs out of circles. The bull announced they were wasting time. The grass did not get eaten any faster.

When Paris was done, she walked to the shade. Suzy was already there, and so the walk had a place to finish. Canberra kept the line. London queued behind it. Spike escorted Paris the last three steps as if he had invented them.

Nobody was late. The gate was still the gate. The day was still the day. Paris had eaten the grass she meant to eat.

Spike shook the dust off and looked for someone who wanted to be hurried. Suzy stayed by the shade a moment longer, because that is where the next slow cow would be.

Some cows move when you run. Some cows move when you wait.