Itchy, bewildered and mildly upset, watched on in confusion as the little moo blathered on about.. something. Itchy didn’t much bother to try and understand much of anything that the little moo had to say. He wanted to tell it “slow down”, but somehow he suspected it wouldn’t do much good. He didn’t even know if it could understand him.
Seeing the little moo rear up onto his hind legs made him flinch a little. This moo different from other moo, he noted. From what little he could gather, it was talking about something called a “mice”. So many words and yet he understood none of them. “Food”, however, he did understand. Maybe “mice” was it’s word for those little crawly brown things in the barn. Then suddenly the moo disappeared back into the grass. Finally, it was gone. Maybe he could sneak away without drawing it back. Just as he had begun to scoot out of the water, however, the moo bounded back over to him with something fat in its jaws. Oh, he had seen those in the barn, but he had never been able to catch one. Had this moo caught it himself?
Itchy looked down at the plump creature at his paws and nudged it cautiously. Dead. He bent down to sniff it. Dead. He glanced at the moo suspiciously. This was food? It looked.. hairy. But, he had to admit it smelled good. So he meekly nibbled on it.
Mice good!
With one, enormous gulp, Itchy scarfed down the entire “mice”, then stuck out his tongue, satisfied. Ok, maybe moo wasn’t so bad after all. He licked his blood stained maw and spat out a tuft of fur. Hmm, it was better than the crawlies and bone scraps. “M-mice.. Mice good.” He mumbled, barely audibly.
He listened for a moment to it’s questions, he supposed he owed the moo that much. It seemed to think that he was dying and it called itself “Cowpaw”. Cowpaw. “Cowpaw..” , he echoed. It then asked for his name, to which Itchy had no answer. Was he supposed to have one? Did he have one? Not one he could remember.
Suddenly the moo- “Cowpaw”, exclaimed very loudly, startling Itchy and causing him to leap. The moo was getting close, too close. He tried to duck away, but it was too late, the moo was digging in his fur! Itchy yowled in surprise, nearly jumping away, but he quickly realized that the moo was eating his itchies. Oh. He sat there for a long moment, stupefied, allowing him to eat the itchies. Why nice?
“... You eat itchies… What are you?” He muttered, a bit clearer this time. His nervous stuttering had subsided.