Burnt Toast and Button Dreams

Not your typical farmyard dweller was Bartholomew Boggins, or Bart as his lone friend Mildred the milkmaid referred to him with affection. Bart was a Fubbt, not like the talkative hens or the stoic cows. Now, you may wonder, what precisely is a Fubbt. Philosophers, fearful people (because, let's face it, (Fubtts can be shocking at first glance), and even Bart himself have been perplexed by that subject.

Even in Bumblebrook Valley's fanciful environment, fubtts were an uncommon breed. Bart lived in a dilapidated teapot-shaped house between Mildred's milking shed and Farmer Fred's prize-winning pumpkins. The teapot had a tall, uneven chimney that was always spewing rainbow-colored smoke, with the lingering faint smell of burnt toast. Burnt toast was Bart's specialty. Fubtts were a rare breed, even in the wacky realm of Bumblebrook Valley, and he liked the stuff. Bart lived in a dilapidated teapot-shaped house between Mildred's milking shed and Farmer Fred's prize-winning pumpkins. The teapot had a tall, uneven chimney that was always spewing rainbow-colored smoke, with the lingering faint smell of burnt toast. This was Bart's signature – burnt toast. He loved the stuff, the blacker the better.

Bart was an amazing sight in himself. Picture a hairy bowling pin with a face of everlasting bewilderment. His aubergine-colored fur appeared to defy gravity, protruding in strange tufts at unexpected angles. In the center of his forehead rested a single, ridiculously enormous eyeball that was always curiously surveying the environment like a toddler. But what made him stand out the most was his posterior. Not only was it big and spherical, but it was also highly expressive. It thumped with dread, twitched with excitement, and sometimes blew up like a balloon whenever Bart thought of anything really clever or stupid.

Two things dominated Bart's life: scavenging and munching (often simultaneously). His own supermarket was located in Bumblebrook Valley. He searched the hedgerows for the juiciest slugs (a delicacy for the Fubbt), went fishing in the laundry line pond for abandoned socks (which had an unexpectedly wonderful texture), and rummaged through the compost heap for a variety of strangely tasty but unidentifiable nibbles. Even while the flavor wasn't always worth the pursuit (and the ensuing reprimand from the remarkably athletic farmer), he still had a soft spot for Farmer Fred's prize pumpkins.

In particular, Bart was hunting one cool fall morning. His stomach growled like a rusty tractor, indicating that he was running low on toast. Attracted by the steady oinking, he waddled over to the pigpen. Well, Fubtts and pigs were not exactly the best of friends. Pigs were noted for their unvarnished honesty and pronounced indifference to the smell of burnt bread. But something was glinting in the mud, Bart thought. The shiny metal button was the ideal addition to his ever expanding "treasures" collection, which largely consisted of bottle caps, buttons, and the occasional stray feather.

A massive pink shadow grew overhead as Bart reached for the button. The prize-winning pig, Priscilla, snorted contemptuously. "It's nice to meet you here, Fubbt. Why have you come to my little home?" She spoke with a voice as rough as a farmer's boots.

Ever the optimist, Bart wagged his tail—that is, the one straggling piece of hair sticking out of the back of his skull. He looked nervously at the button and muttered, "Just, uh, admiring the... view?"

With a strangely melodic sound for such a huge beast, Priscilla laughed. "You want that button, don't you?"

Bart writhed. "Well, the button is really delicate. glistening and, well, frivolous."

Priscilla pouted and pushed the button in closer with her nose. "Go on then," she said. "Just do me a favor."

Bart raised an erect eyebrow. "A favor for a button?"

"Yeah. Once more, those annoying crows are attempting to steal breakfast from my feeder. See those acorns, all shiny? You can get the button if you can frighten those rascals off."

Always in the mood for a hearty supper, Bart immediately consented. With his big eyeball fixed on the cawing crows sitting perilously on the brink, he waddled over to the acorn feeder. He let out a loud squawk, puffing out his chest and inflating his expressive behind to frightening dimensions. It was a sound like nothing anyone had ever heard, like a balloon bursting and a kazoo combined.

The sound and Bart's strange appearance scared the crows, sending them scattering in a spray of black feathers. Priscilla laughed and snorted. "Good job, Fubbt! You have a lot of lung capacity."

With a triumphant squeeze of the button in his furry paw, Bart grinned. With his pockets brimming with finds, he explored the farmyard for the remainder of the morning. Even a particularly burnt piece of toast that Mildred had dropped in the process of feeding the hens was successfully retrieved by him.

For a fubbt, life wasn't always simple. Most of the time, Farmer Fred would use a broom to chase him out of the fields, and occasionally the other animals would find his oddities offensive. But there was something endearing about Bart. Even on the worst of days, his contagious energy and undying optimism brought joy.

One evening, Bart was sitting on the porch of his teapot-shaped house, enjoying a particularly juicy slug—a treat that only a Fubbt could appreciate—as the sun sank behind the undulating hills, transforming the sky into shades of orange and purple. A twinge of loneliness struck him. Though he cherished Bumblebrook Valley, there were moments when he wished there was someone who could relate to him, someone who wouldn't be bewildered by his fondness for burnt toast or surprised by his backside antics.

Abruptly, a beam of light shot through the dusk and landed gently in the pumpkin patch. Bart approached slowly, his one eye opening wide in shock. It was neither a big beetle, nor was it a crow. It was a creature he had never seen before. It was little, with antenna-like appendages twitching on its head and shimmering green skin. It carried a device that beeped wildly and wore a small spacesuit.

Bart cocked his head, his behind jiggling in an odd way. He squeaked, not sure whether the thing could comprehend him, "Uh, hello?"

The tiny animal responded with a chirp, blinking its big bright eyes. It aimed its device first at Bart and then upwards. It made a lot of quick clicks and whistles.

Though Bart could not understand what the creature was saying, he felt a cry for assistance. Bart nodded, puffing out his chest and his behind with a renewed resolve. Even if he was a Fubbt—a creature of burned toast and lost socks—he wouldn't abandon a friend in need. Perhaps, just possibly, this was the beginning of an exquisite (and little strange) friendship that would span races and possibly even worlds. Bart's one inquisitive eye widened with enthusiasm at the potential of adventure that seemed to be waiting for him under the starry night sky. Things were about to get much more intriguing in his existence as a Fubbt.