Cinnamon and Trouble

Cinnamon and Trouble

“It’s not fair,” I cried out, but everyone in the stands was too busy cheering to hear.

I protested again in front of the Racing Board, but they just laughed at me. “Get used to progress, young lady,” one frog-looking gentleman said, waving his paper back and forth to fan himself although the air conditioner was blasting away.

I looked about the room. Everyone had started talking again. My protest and I had been forgotten.

I sighed loudly and turned to go, but one of the newsmen caught my eye. “Care to make a statement?” he asked.

“I sure do,” I responded. Pulling myself up as tall as my five-foot-one frame would allow, I cleared my throat and said, “This race was unfair to Terran horses. For centuries horse racing has been a . . . ”

I was just getting into it when a man rushed in and destroyed my whole speech. “Quick!” he yelled. "Get the owner out here. There’s been a terrible accident.”

"An accident? Was my horse hurt? If anyone has harmed a single piece of Cinnamon's mane, why I’ll . . ."

I paled and swayed slightly. The newsman clasped my elbow. I smiled thanks and started moving forward.

“What ‘til you see it,” said the man, answering someone standing next to him.

“See what? Is it Cinnamon? Is she hurt?”

I was attempting to claw my way toward the exit, but the Racing Board Room had filled up with huge bodies. My thrust wasn’t enough to budge them.

“Let me out,” I cried.

“Is that her? Is that the owner?” someone yelled.

A pathway opened and two policemen grabbed onto me, propelling me the rest of the way.

“What did they do to my Cinnamon?” I asked, but no one answered me.

As I climbed down the steps, I looked out over the racetrack. I couldn’t see a thing. Hordes of people and aliens were crowded around what I suspected was my horse.

“Oh, dear. Poor Cinnamon,” I muttered, ignoring the strange looks the cops were sending my way.

Once again the crowds made way for me, and I came face to face with the owner of the winning animal. It was hard to tell from the alien's expression, but I think he looked angry. That startled me, but my eyes immediately moved from him to Cinnamon.

She was standing calmly, chewing on something. I stopped abruptly and was dragged slightly by the still-moving policemen. “I don’t understand,” I said. “Cinnamon looks fine.”

That’s when two aliens backed away from the competitor. The alien animal was still standing up, but it was entirely headless. Its long neck kept twisting from side to side like it was looking around for its missing head.

“Ooh!” I cried out, stepping backward, right onto the cop’s foot. “Sorry,” I said, “but that’s just gross. What happened to that animal?”

Cinnamon chose that moment to let out a loud and hungry whinny. She also put back her ears, lurched forward, and tried to snap at the creature.

“Oh, my! Don’t tell me . . .”

Everyone stopped staring at Cinnamon and turned to glare at me.

“Horses are vegetarians,” I cried out. “I don't understand this. That creature won't make my horse sick, will it?"

The crowd booed me. I hung my head.

“The woman did it on purpose,” someone yelled out. “She caused this to happen because she was so upset when her horse lost.”

“Now how is that possible?” asked a newsman. “Does she look like a cold-hearted killer?”

I wasn’t sure if I should thank the man or not for introducing the concept of murder, but it did seem to quiet the crowd. Besides, Cinnamon obviously hadn’t killed the thing. I was pretty sure I’d read that the critter's brains were located next to its stomach.

The alien, one from the planet Smithgor where they have wrinkles and a face that looks exactly like a Chinese Shar Pei dog, stepped up closer to me. In fact, he put his droopy, jowly face right into mine and said, “Boospe goostre smenof,” which someone translated for me as “You owe us another racing animal.”

Once again I sighed heavily. I had bet everything I owned on Cinnamon winning this race. Whenever she didn’t eat a meal she always raced like a demon, plowing through everything in her way. I’d figured that there was no way Cinnamon could lose against a small alien brontosaurus look-alike.

I tried to explain about not having any money, but the Smithgorian didn’t seem to understand the concept. He kept shaking his vibrating jowl in my face, and he drooled so badly, the spit flew all over me.

Meanwhile, Cinnamon was getting angrier and angrier about not having her breakfast. Her ears were laid so far back, they looked like they were part of her mane. Her teeth flashed, big and yellow. There was going to be another accident soon if I didn’t get her back to her stall.

“Harvey,” I called out to the jockey, but he had taken off. “Clarence,” I yelled for the trainer, but he had vanished too. An unknown alien was holding onto my irate horse.

“I need to get to Cinnamon,” I told everyone. “She’s going to explode worse if I don’t get her back to her stall.”

The policemen dropped their hold on me, and the crowd and the reporters all stepped back. I rushed over to Cinnamon.

“Shame on you,” I told her. “You’ve gotten us into a terrible mess.”

She responded by snapping at my shirt. It wasn’t the first time. I was a pretty good dodger. “Stop that,” I ordered, and she pawed the ground in argument.

Well, I know, dear reader, that you’ve heard the rest of this story since it's been carried in all the newspapers. The government is making me work off my debt with the Smithgorians. So Cinnamon and I have been wearing Smithgorian colors and racing in planets all across the galaxy. I'm very proud to say that we've won quite a few, too -- in spite of the fact that I’ve never again deprived Cinnamon of breakfast. That's one thing, I promise that I'll never risk again!


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