Scottish Sheep

A response to RJ Clarken's "Monday Maffle" in Flashy Fiction.

"What are you doing here?" I asked the stuffed sheep Dmitry had given me, which sat upright on its tail with its legs wrapped around the lamp's brass base. Of course, the sheep didn't answer me, it was stuffed. Of course, for that matter, it shouldn't have been able to move either. I carried the sheep back into the sitting room and set it on the shelf next to my Harry Potter books.

Dmitry held his smartphone in his hand and squinted at a webpage or book he was reading while outside snow skipped across the moor.

I plopped down in one of the antique chairs whose cushions were lower than was comfortable. I asked, "That sheep keeps moving from his place in the bookcase. Would you have anything to do with that?"

"Huh," he looked up and blinked at me for a second, "the sheep? No, haven't touched it."

I shivered. I trusted Dmitry, but that meant that the options left -- out here stranded miles away from the nearest person on the moor -- were unsettling.