The Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

I was amazed to find a sheep baying at the moon.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Shh!" he hissed," I'm imitating a wolf."

"I beg your pardon?" I asked.

"I'm imitating a wolf," he repeated sheepishly.

"Why?" I asked bluntly.

"Because wolves prey," he said.

"They say their prayers, do they?" I asked amazed.

"Baa!

"And, you like the moon?" I asked.

"Baa," he snarled going back to the wolf routine.

"So you are a sheep in wolves clothing?"

"It's the latest fashion," he replied.

"Do you always horn in?" I asked wishing to be illuminated.

"No, I only honk it," the sheep replied.

"I meant do you gatecrash parties?" I asked.

"Wolves love to," he said.

"Oh! Wolves have a love life!" I exclaimed.

"They love sheep," he said morosely.

"How thoughtful of them," I remarked.

"They love mutton curry," he said acidly.

"What's wrong with that?"

"They could have gone for the goats?" the sheep said regretfully.

"You mean chevon?" I questioned.

"Where do I find it?" he questioned.

"In the dictionary," I replied, "chevon is goat's meat."

"And I thought they only ate the poor lambs! Are you sure, they are not chevrons? My grandmother got one for taking a bull by the horns," the sheep remarked thoughtfully.

"Was she in the army?"

"She was in the Special Forces," the sheep said proudly.

"What did she do?"

"She cooked goose pimples and lamb chops."

"Whose goose did she cook?" I asked amazed at her prowess.

"You should taste her French trimmed rack of lamb," he bragged.

"Does she hand out invitations?" I asked hopefully.

"Only after the funeral," he replied.

"Whose funeral are you talking about?" I asked.

"It's your funeral," said a wolf to the sheep arriving on the scene.

"Baa!" howled the sheep and the wolf scuttled off immediately tail between its legs.

"Look at what the empowerment of the sheep did for us!" he exclaimed.

"You have voting rights?" I asked.

"Yes we give our hoof impressions," the sheep replied.

"Can't you write?"

"Don't be stupid, why should sheep have to learn calligraphy?"

"But it's an art," I replied.

"I don't care much for modern art," the sheep said, "I prefer the old masters like Goya, Durer, da Vinci, Raphael, and Vermeer."

"Have you been reading Wikipedia?" I asked suspiciously.

"I do that when I am not reading Tolstoy," the sheep replied.

"You are highly educated," I said appreciatively.

"They are more interested in earning a living these days," he said thoughtfully.

"Who isn't?" I asked, "Everyone needs to earn."

"Urn?" he questioned.

"Earn," I replied, "for putting food on the table."

"I would not like to be cooked medium rare for anybody's table," he protested.

"It's rare these days to find a medium," I said nodding my head.

"That too after the ghosts left for an outing at the zoo," the sheep replied.

"What did they do that for?" I asked surprised.

"To make the animals jump out of their skins," he said smugly.

"Oh!" I exclaimed in amazement.

"Then they don't need to be skinned! All the poachers are using spirits these days," the sheep said.

"Do they use alcohol?" I asked interestedly.

"They are all alcoholics," the sheep informed.

"Oh!"

"Did you mean the poachers or the ghosts?" I asked seeking clarification.

"They can't tell each other apart when they are hitting the bottle," the sheep said grinning.

"They work under cover of darkness?"

"They work undercover sometimes and now and then turn into double agents," the sheep said.

"It's very thrilling," I remarked.

There came an immediate trill from a nearby bush.

"What was that?" I asked quavering, a chill running down my spine.

There came another trill, which left me shaking in my boots.

"Who's whistling at me?" asked the sheep annoyed.

"Can it be your grandmother?" I asked shuddering some more.

"Could be, she passed away a long time ago," he said as my hair stood on end.

"It's me," the wolf dressed in sheep's clothing laughed emerging from the bush.

"You came again?" the sheep barked.

"Don't do that!" The wolf cried.

"Now, now there is no need to cry," I said kindly.

"I'm not the big bad wolf, I swear I don't know Red Riding Hood or the Three Little Pigs," he sobbed.

I offered him a handkerchief, "There, there dry your tears."

"A likely story," the sheep snapped.

"Don't you see that he is upset?" I exclaimed.

"I'm downcast," the wolf said tearfully.

"Then why were you beating about the bush?" the sheep demanded.

"I never beat the bush!" the wolf swore.

"What sort of beat is it?" I asked dumbfounded.

"Oh! Those for foxtrot," the sheep said informatively.

"Do foxes trot like horses? You can enter them for the derby then," I said helpfully.

"I will have to consult my bookie," the wolf said brightening.

"Count me in," the sheep coughed.

"You got a cold?" I asked the sheep anxiously.

"Just cold feet," he replied.

"You can try footbaths," said the wolf, "it always works for me when I am in hot water."

"In the soup more likely," the sheep sniffed.

"What's wrong with taking a bath, I just wish I had a bathtub," he said dreamily.

"With a rubber duck in it," I said happily.

"You can ask your fairy godmother," the sheep told the wolf sarcastically.

"Baa!" exclaimed the wolf.

"Woof, woof," I said in agreement.

"Ventriloquism will get you nowhere," the sheep growled fiercely.

"Flattery will," I said.

"When the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak," responded the sheep.

"Reminds me of chevon," I said.

"Don't go on talking about food," the wolf snarled hungrily.

"There's always food for thought!" the sheep said solemnly.

"It's making me hungry for roast lamb," the wolf said.

"Hungry to bed and early to rise are never good for gas," I said helpfully.

"Are you a quack?" asked the wolf angrily.

"Just a plastic duck in a bathtub," I said ingratiatingly.

"If I can't eat the sheep, I can try one of your juicy calves," the wolf said his eyes lighting up.

"I am not a cow that can be cowed," I protested.

"You can go and chew the cud," the sheep told the wolf.

"They did not teach me that in school," the wolf howled, "Can't I get a bite?"

"You can look up the menu card in any restaurant," the sheep suggested.

"What if they serve a plastic duck?" the wolf asked.

"Then don't leave a tip," I suggested.

"Will they serve roast lamb?" asked the wolf licking his lips.

"And wine," the sheep said.

"What am I waiting for then?" asked the wolf, "Will the orchestra also play?"

"You will certainly face the music," I said.

"Then I shall begin with that sheep for starters," he said springing up on his hind feet.

"Baa!" snarled the sheep. 

"Go see a dentist," I told the wolf as it fled with his tail between his legs.