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So now Jack had a job! Finally, a chance to redeem himself. He could totally do this. It couldn’t be much harder than taking care of a cow, and he did that for like forty whole minutes before screwing everything up.
But this was different. Better. He didn’t even go to school, so not taking sheep there was a piece of cake!
The sheep milled about, eating and drinking and doing other various sheepish things. Jack was excited. His stepmother would be so proud to hear he was a successful sheep … boy. Sheep person. Sheep-watcher? Sheep-sitter. He really should have asked for more details.
But no matter. He had a job! And he was great at it! All that sitting, watching, not taking the sheep to school. It was just great, super great, really …
He didn’t like looking at sheep, he realized. Their fluffy white wool reminded him too much of clouds. Horrible, bouncy, giant-filled clouds.
He didn’t like talking to the sheep, either. Sheep are terrible conversationalists. He asked how they liked being sheep. “Meh,” they answered. He asked if they liked eating grass. “Meh,” they answered. He asked if they liked him. That time, they didn’t even say anything. They just stared, slowly chewing their meh grass. Jerks.
He stared forlornly down at the village, wishing someone would come visit him. It almost made him miss Jill and her stupid red cloak with its stupid red hood. He wondered what Jill was up to. He wondered what his stepmother was up to. He wondered what beautiful, sweet, good Snow White was up to. He missed her.
Jack flopped down onto his back, groaning in agony. He was so bored and so lonely! (I should note that, at this point, he had been watching the sheep for approximately seventeen minutes.) If only someone would come visit him.
He stood, looking down at the tiny figures in the village below. “Knock, knock!” he shouted.
No one answered.
“Who’s there?” Jack muttered to himself. “Ewe!” he said. “Ewe who? Well, yoo-hoo to you, too!”
“Meh,” a sheep said.
Jack threw a handful of grass at the sheep. “That was a great joke! I hope you get eaten by wolves!” he shouted.
“Wolves?” someone down at the village cried out. “Wolves? Wolves!”
Suddenly, the whole village was surging out of their homes, running up the hill toward him. He stood, thrilled. Finally some visitors! They arrived out of breath, holding knives, pitchforks, and one flamethrower. (That is not actually how you want visitors to show up. Unless you have a very different sort of party than I normally do.)
“Where is the wolf?” a burly man with a burly mustache asked.
“Yes, where?” a thin man with a thin mustache asked.
“Wolves?” Jack asked. “Who said anything about wolves?”
“You did!” a curvy woman with a curvy mustache shouted. (She, too, was hirsute. She won all the mustache contests. Everyone was jealous.)
“I was just trying to tell a knock-knock joke!”
The curvy woman smacked him in the side of the head. “Well, knock knock it off! I have pies in the oven.” Grumbling, she tromped back down the hill, followed by the rest of the villagers and possibly one of the sheep. I wasn’t paying attention. Neither was their sheep-sitter.
Jack rubbed the side of his head. It hurt from where that horrible woman with the wonderful mustache had hit him. Now he was bored AND his head hurt. He watched as she went back to the closest house at the bottom of the hill. Jack waited a few minutes, until he was sure her pies would be almost done. Then he stood and, cupping his hands around
his mouth, shouted, “WOLVES!”
Again, people swarmed out of their houses and raced up the hill. The mustachioed woman was wearing oven mitts and clutching a hatchet. “Where are the wolves?” she demanded.
Jack looked from side to side, faking innocence. “I could have sworn I saw one. Over there.” He pointed into the trees. She ran in, followed by several men. Jack sprinted down the hill to her house. On the table was a glorious apple pie. Jack didn’t know about vegetables, but when it came to fruit in pies, he was an expert. Though the pie was so hot it scalded his tongue, he shoved handfuls of it into his mouth.
Then he turned and ran back up the hill.
The villagers came out of the trees. Everyone was frowning. “There was no wolf. No footprints. Are you sure that’s what you saw?” the woman demanded.
“Oh, mmmmfff, mmhmm,” Jack mumbled, nodding. His mouth was still full of pie. But his belly wasn’t full yet. The villagers grumbled, walking slowly back down the hill. When the woman got to her door, Jack managed to swallow the rest of his mouthful.
“Wolf!” he screamed, pointing at the trees. They all ran back—much, much slower this time, because it was a lot of running up and down hills. (In fact, the woman who would go on to invent the tower-stair exercise method would also have a popular “Oh No, Wolf!” hill sprinting class. But she hired actual wolves to chase people up and down the hills for extra motivation. If you survived, you ended up in great shape!)
As soon as they were out of sight, Jack rolled down the hill and back to his pie. He ate the rest of it, and was still licking the crumbs off his fingers as he strolled back to his spot.
