The BLA

The BLA

It appears on the kitchen table out of nowhere.

“Where’d it come from?” I ask.

I don’t know, mom says.

Dad just shakes his head.

My brother professes ignorance—but he can’t be trusted, so I’m not sure.

Sis shrugs and look s away.

After the initial excitement of its arrival, we all go back to our normal lives.

Two weeks later, we’re shocked by its disappearance.

By then, we’ve all grown fond of it.

My little sister especially.

She takes it the hardest—she cries. A lot.

Nothing consoles her.

Then we find the ransom note.

Sis’ screams, clutching her dolly.

Scrawled in crayon:

“If you ever want to see Bessy alive again,

leave two dozen cookies at midnight in two days!”

Two days is underlined twice in red.

Below that is a photocopy of our beloved stuffed cow, looking terror-stricken.

It’s signed: The BLA — aka the Bovine Liberation Army.

We all feel the same way; scared and helpless.

Dad calls an emergency family meeting.

At mom’s insistence, we all show up with cookie pans.

Even with bipolar, mom has moments of clarity—especially in a crisis.”

“First things first,” she declares.

“We need ingredients.”

“Sis, get the chocolate chips.”

(In hindsight, a huge mistake.)

“Phil, round up the eggs.”

“Tim, I need flour—pronto!”

“Dad—make yourself useful, for God’s sake. Get the baking powder!”

We work like a well-oiled machine.

The cookies are done in twenty minutes, 

with more than a few chips missing.

We set them out and assume our hiding places,

hoping to catch the culprit(s).

By 3 a.m., half the cookies are eaten

and there’s still no sign of the BLA—

or Bessy.

Exhausted, but full we give up and crawl off to bed.

In the morning, we find Sis asleep at the kitchen table, 

hugging Bessy, 

with an empty plate beside her.