The Night Cow by Cormac McCarthy

The cow stood looming in megablok wreckage while an oscillating fan cranked back and forth on its utmost setting. The revolving constellation lamp reflected a desert sky Milky Way off its inky pupils. Lies made truth of legend. To salivate on follicles like a louse enlarged past practicality and yet its temeritous purpose was prescient. It was here to lick and make a mess of hair that would not yield to brush or comb no matter how the head was handled.

Dad, I am afraid of the Night Cow, she said.

It’s not going to do anything to you. It’s going to lick your head.

It’s going to scream at me.

No it isn’t. It’s going to moo. Cows go moo. Moo.

What does it look like?

It looks like a cow. You aren’t afraid of cows are you?

No.

Okay then. I love you.

I love you too.

Have a good dream.

Have a good dream.

Dad?

What?

Never mind. Goodnight.

Goodnight.