Elephants Plotting against Me #WITWContest

Prompt: My Talking Pet is Plotting against Me

"I'm sorry!"

"Me too." He looks at me, then points to the cigar stub. "I'm talking about the cigar."

"Oh, I see."

"You don't really know much about you girlfriend, eh?" he says. "She's a good dude."

"Actually, there's a lot you don't know," a dapple gray who appeared out of nowhere chimes in: "The guy with the cigar isn't even fully a horse. His dad is a dog."

"And who are you?" I'm almost tired.

"My name's Chatterbox," the dapple gray says.

"Are you female?"

"I don't think so. Maybe." Chatterbox frowns.

"Why are two of my girlfriend's horses male?" I look around addressing all of them.

"Three," says a booming voice. "I'm definitely male. I'm her skeptic!"

"Wait a minute!" I say to the black horse that just emerged. "I know you! You told her not to get her ankle checked when it was broken."

"Pain is subjective," the skeptic says.

"And every time something good happens, you make her think about the bad implications it could have."

"Yep, that's me!"

"I don't like you!"

"Don't say that! You make the elephant on the sofa look sad." Everyone looks at the elephant on the sofa. He looks sad.

"I don't understand," I cry. "Why does she have a skeptic and I have an elephant without any characteristics and without a name? And why are three of her soul animals male?"

"Excuse me," Chatterbox says. "Is it important if we are male of female? You know what they say: Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

"He thinks he might be gay!" the armchair philosopher says.

Everyone goes quiet. Someone snickers.

"Thanks a lot!" I tell him. "Very helpful!"

"I want you to know, that there's nothing wrong with having a girlfriend who's also your best friend and a male philosopher," the armchair psychologist says. "Why don't we all take a deep breath."

"Aargh!" I say.

Chatterbox moves closer to me and points to the jade. "Did I mention his father's a dog. He doesn't like to talk about it. School was tough. He got bullied because the word "carrot" made him drool. Ended up becoming a police dog or horse, whichever you prefer. Oh, and he wags when he's happy."

"Inspector," the bony old horse says, offering me a hoofshake. "Inspector Ro-mare-o."

Chatterbox isn't finished. "But then he got suspended. Doesn't like to talk about that either. Huge scandal. Had to work as a meter maid until he retired."

"Early retirement," the inspector clarifies.

"Well, you know the problem with retired police dogs..." Chatterbox gives me a knowing look.

I don't.

"I don't," I say.

"They can't adapt to civilian life. Always on duty. Always looking for something to police. I bet he's got a whole file on you. He always wants to make us follow rules, always loads the dishwasher the correct way, never dodges a fare — and then after a while: he burns out."

I have to admit, that does remind me of my girlfriend. Is this how things will be from now on? I look around. Three horses, one of which is half a police dog, are looking back at me. Grumpy and Pretty have retreated to the bedroom. The elephant has moved next to Inspector Romaro and starts nuzzling his earlobe.

At this point I have almost accepted my fate.

„So, we're living together now? All of us?"

"Tell him," the thirteen-year-old says. The armchair psychologist puts his trunk on my shoulder.

"You will no longer be needed."

"What?" My ears flutter.

"It is time for you to let us unfold. Ro-mare-o here has a promising career ahead of him as a private investigator. The thirteen-year-old wants to go on vacation and see women in bikinis. The elephant wants to find out who he is, and Grumpy needs a psychoanalysis. Chatterbox wishes to talk to your family more, and the skeptic is bracing for the worst. There are stories in all of us, but to unlock them, you have to let go. Your girlfriend already did."

Will I ever see her again, I wonder. Or will it just be a pretty pony, a mangy inspector, a chatterbox, and a professional skeptic? I'm confused. I look down on myself. I see wrinkles. I feel gray.

The next morning, Inspector Romero is sitting across from me at the breakfast table holding a newspaper with a hole in it. It looks like he's watching me. I guess he knows more about me than I do. The only thing I know is that I'm an elephant.

Grumpy tries to peel an egg without crushing it with his clumsy feet, hot steam coming out of his ears. The thirteen-year-old is already in school. The skeptic tries to convince Chatterbox that everything can be seen this way or that. Pretty Pony is flirting with all of us.

"Hey, did you draw this?" The armchair psychologist examines the scribbled elephant on my napkin. "You might be an artist!"

I barely listen. I'm deep in thought. To make this situation work, we've got to make sure the right person is doing the right thing. Chatterbox must not meet our friends. The psychologist has to be present when we get a bill. The thirteen-year-old needs to be put on a leash. But will that be enough?

Inspector Ro-mare-o is still looking at me through the newspaper.

"I think he likes you," Chatterbox whispers. "Whatcha think? Yay or neigh?"

I blush. I think I like him too. I give him a tender look, the kind you save for an old friend. He makes a note in his notebook.

When breakfast is finished, he comes over to me, his mysterious floppy hat pulled low over his face.

"I want a spin-off," he says. "I also want to go see a movie. What do you say, partner?"