BUTTERCUP
by
Jenny Todd

Word: postpartum
Question: Why do they call it a ‘barn’ ?

My grandfather found her. Or, rather, it was our Labrador, Musti. They were out on their daily walk together in the wattles when Musti ran off to investigate something that caught his interest. When he returned he was carrying something in his mouth. It was a baby buck, newly born, still covered with its postpartum wetness. My grandfather walked home with the baby over his shoulder and gave her to my mother. It was just after the war and we were still staying with my grandparents. My mother called the baby Buttercup, an inappropriate name for an African antelope perhaps, but then my mother was English.

My grandfather made a good choice when he put Buttercup into the care of my mother. She loved animals and knew exactly what to do. Once past the babyhood and bottle-feeding stage, Buttercup became like any other member of the family. She had the run of the house and garden and the freedom to come and go as she pleased. Wild animal she might be, and not altogether house-trained, but not for her the indignity of segregation in an outdoor barn (why do they call it a barn, anyway?). My mother, able to read the signs, kept a baby’s potty handy and in this way managed to avoid any catastrophes. When finally we moved into our own house about a mile from my grandparents, Buttercup joined us in the car on the short journey. We discovered then that she loved the car. She showed her approval by christening it before settling down and falling asleep. She and Musti were good friends and we soon acquired a couple of cats.

On hot summer days we laid out a rug under the plane trees with cicadas screeching overhead and all the animals jostling for space with us. We had our morning tea out there and Buttercup her bottle of milk even though by this time she had reached full adulthood. At night she preferred to live in the surrounding wattles, but came each day to visit us. As long as she was in the garden she was completely tame, but as evening fell and we escorted her to the edge of the garden, she reverted in an instant to her wild state, leaping away and running for her life into the shelter of the trees. And every time, without fail, her good friend, Musti, chased after her. They couldn’t help themselves. The next day she would reappear at her leisure. She might walk into the drawing room or appear on the front terrace. Or she might come to the back door and leap onto the veranda, her sharp little hooves splaying in all four directions as they lost traction on the polished concrete floor.

Animals can communicate, even wild ones. So we knew that Buttercup loved her bottle and always gave her one. But her strong, sharp teeth were made for eating grass not caressing the soft rubber of a teat. She chewed through them with monotonous regularity and eventually my mother decided enough was enough and there would be no more bottles. For a few more days Buttercup continued to come in hope. We offered her sugar lumps but she considered them a poor exchange for a bottle. Her visits grew less frequent and soon she stopped coming altogether.

One night, some years later, there was a great commotion in the wattles, with much barking of dogs. We went out to investigate and suddenly a buck burst from the trees and raced across the garden. The dogs were wild and wouldn’t follow into a garden. We can’t be sure, of course, but we like to think it was Buttercup remembering that she had been safe there once.