Ollister B. Pembrick and the Ploobish Wharpth

Disclaimer! I have read “The Wooing of Sophelia Stupe”, but I chose not to use her in this story. Thus, we have Patty.

It was on a stormy night that I first espied the Ploobish Wharpth. The rain was falling in sheets, thunder crashed, and blue lighting lit up the sky. It was unseasonably warm for so early in the spring.

I was sitting in the dining room having dinner with my sweet Patty when I glanced out the window. A streak of lightning lit up the sky, as something slowly squelched up the muddy street. It was huge, nearly the size of a toothy cow, and had long, floppy jowls which reminded me of a Basset hound, my favorite kind of dog. Folds of tan skin coated its frog-like body, and two horns, similar to those of a sheep, curled underneath its ears. Its front legs were short, and its back legs were long, making its hindquarters stick in the air like a cat’s when it stretches. Its eyes shone green in the light from our windows.

“By the hairs on a digtoad’s warts! Is that what I think it is?” I exclaimed, jumping up.

My chair clattered to the floor, and Patty put her hand to her chest, startled by my sudden reaction. She recovered quickly, for she was used to my random outbursts.

“Why, my dear Ollister, whatever is the matter?” (She always called me “Ollister,” I don’t know why. All my friends—and I didn’t have many—called me “Ollie,” but she always insisted on “Ollister.”)

“Patty! I… I can hardly believe it!” I exclaimed, “There is a Ploobish Wharpth... a Ploobish Wharpth! Simply walking down Main Street!”

“A Ploobey whatsit?” she asked, but I was already out the door, a rope in hand.

I must catch it! I thought to myself.

I hurried after it, my boots filling with water. Quickly they became so soggy they slipped right off my feet. I tripped, falling face-first into the mud (and a cow pie), but I hardly noticed, I was so intent on catching this frog-sheep-dog-thing.

The Ploobish Wharpth waddle-hopped to a stop. I took my chance. Sneaking up behind it, I slipped my rope over one of its horns and yanked the loop tight.

I always carried an assortment of animal foods in my pocket in case I ever needed them. This time I opted to go with a piece of dried pork and shoved a bag of dead bugs back into my pocket.

I held the meat out invitingly, and slowly the creature turned its head to snuffle at the treat. Snorting, it tried to take a bite.

“That’s right, now follow me,” and just in case it couldn’t understand, I translated to the guttural Ploobian dialect: “Snork gurk, blok blok BLURG!”

In this manner I led my new animal towards the house.

“Come on, this way. Blok blok BLURG, snurgle blagger.”

I started walking backwards up the stairs.

“That thing is not coming in the house,” Patty stood in the doorway, shaking her head.

“Well where do you suggest I keep it, then?”

“In the shed.”

“But, Pattums!”

“No. It is not coming into the house. That is final.” Patty shut the door.

Slowly I trudged to the shed behind our house. I tossed some fresh hay onto the ground and tied the Ploobish Wharpth to a post.

After I had stripped my muddy trousers and sponged off outside, Patty let me in the house. “Patty-Love, you never let me bring an animal in the house.”

“Ollister, that is not true at all. Think about the bird.”

“Which one?”

“Exactly. And the dog, the digtoad, the toothy cow, for goodness sakes!”

“Yes, but…”

“Ollister, no.”

“Patty!”

But Patty simply would not budge on the matter.

Eventually she said, “Ollister, I know how much you love animals and how you want everyone to know about them. You should write a book. Then you can have all your animals collected on the pages, and in that way they will all be in the house.”

And so I did. I was going to title my volume “Patty’s Creaturepedia,” but she wanted nothing to do with it, so instead I have named it “Pembrick’s Creaturepedia.”