The cows smiled as they surveyed all that they could survey. It was a cluttered panorama with papers and wires scattered everywhere but, paradoxically, books arranged in a certain order and movie posters neatly placed on the wall.
“It’s as if he can’t make up his mind to be a cluttered mess or obsessive compulsive,” one cow said to the other. The cows didn’t have names because, as an impossible quasi super villain once said, they knew who they are.
“We must have an adventure,” said the other cow.
“Why?”
“Well,” said the adventurer, “there has to be a story to tell about us so people remember who we are.”
“Why can’t we be remembered as the two little cows who sat contentedly smiling on the bookshelf for years upon years and lived happily ever after?”
“Yes, I suppose we could,” said the other. “But something has to happen to make it a story. That’s what makes it a story: Things happen.”
“I don’t want anything to happen. It means change, and I like things just the way they are.”
“So do I. But wouldn’t an adventure be grand?”
“It depends on the adventure. Some are full of mystery and intrigue and peril, which are three things I’m not terribly fond of.”
“I see what you mean,” the other said. “But this could be an adventure of discovery and beauty and strange new worlds and new civilizations.”
“I’m not sure I like ‘strange.’”
“Now you’re just being contrary. Come on, let’s go.”
“You go ahead. I’m happy right here.”
“I’m not going anywhere without you. We are two peas in a pod.”
“No, we’re two cows on a shelf. And I like it that way.”
“Oh, all right,” the would-be adventurer conceded. “I was just saying.”
“But you got your wish.”
“I did?”
“Yes. We’re in a story.”
“But nothing happened!”
“Fancy that.”
And they did live happily ever after.