My First Fan Fiction… About Carl the Carrot

Samuel Wilderness wins at everything. My tweets about my little kitty get the most RT’s (+100 and counting on his Christmas tree shot), he made Buzzfeed before I did, and his Instagram shots are my most liked.

I don’t mind riding the wave of kitty love, though I have to laugh that he might have more name recognition than I do. So it’s kind of cool that I get my first piece of fan fiction the other day… and it’s about Carl the Carrot. If you don’t remember Carl, let me refresh you with this YouTube video of me with an orange face and green spandex around my head.

Carl’s story was so moving that a lovely fan who I’ve been in contact with in the past felt that Carl should be given a second chapter. And so, I’m posting the continuation of Carl’s story below, with permission of the author.

The Further Tribulations of Carl The Carrot
And His Temporary Reprieve From Personal Torture

I fumbled across the cold, wet plexiglass refrigerator shelf in the dark for what seemed like hours, searching for the plastic lip along the shelf edge. I rolled uncontrollably since my outer flesh had been peeled smooth and no longer possessed any leafy head to steer or slow my progress. I bumped into so many in the frigid blackness and was shoved violently in so many directions that I could no longer find my crystal dish, nor the mayonnaise jar that had temped me from across the fridge.

At last, I felt the shelf lip stop my endless rolling and I rested there, hoping desperately the dizziness would soon dissipate. As I lay there, with nothing to do but contemplate my fate and the fate of my family and friends, I wanted it all to end. I thought about just giving myself one last little push over the edge but I doubted the short fall to the refrigerator floor would’ve been enough to splatter me into the juicy state I longed for.

But then, inspiration came to my rescue! If I could take the fall without breaking my now more delicate, wounded body, I might hide in the space between the rail and the floor of the bottom door shelf and simply roll out when the door next opened. It was a magnificent plan, barring any fractures to my flailed and shivering shaft, and so I flung myself from that very spot.

As I fell a terrifying thought occurred to me: what if I fall short of the door, ricochet off the bottom shelf, miss the rail and roll into the door crack! I’ll be trapped in the wrinkles of the vinyl door seal forever, hidden beneath the bottom door shelf until I rot. I mean, look around this place these people never clean the inside of their fridge.

My short life flashed before me as I fell and then bounced off the top edge of a rail, hit the bottom door shelf and rolled neatly to my goal, perfectly positioned to make a break for it when the door would swing open.

I didn’t have to wait long, by now morning was upon us and soon the family would prowl about the kitchen seeking breakfast. My moment came, the door opened and I rolled quietly off the shelf and kept on rambling toward the patio doors and freedom. But my momentum was slowed by the gaps between the floor tiles and I rolled to a stop just short of the sunlight streaming into breakfast nook and falling across that damned tile. I lay there—defenceless, exposed—I could feel the warmth of that sunlight on the tile across the grout from me.

Then I heard the horrifying sound of great paws hitting the floor in a thunderous rhythm, her nails crackling against the ceramic like lightning. Agatha, the family’s mastiff came galloping toward me, her spittle-soaked jowls dancing through the air, spraying the room with her foulness.

Her dull claws screeched to a halt on either side of me, her terrible face hovering over me. She tilted her head in that quizzical way dogs have. I had seen this sort of behaviour before in other dogs, just before they yanked my siblings out of the ground and mashed them to pulp inside their horrid mouths. And now the same was about to happen to me, just when my plan had been going so fabulously. Oh, dark and cruel is the life of a farm vegetable.

Agatha’s massive, wrinkled lips closed on me, their wetness thick and hot against my body. I felt her huge tongue wrap around my slender waist and she gripped me in those sharp, smelly teeth. I braced myself for the inevitable crack that would signal my end. But it did not come.

She held me there in those gobby lips and carried me right out of those patio doors, which someone had opened for her to venture out into the yard. She carried me away from certain death and into the gorgeous morning sunlight and I cried freedom!

Then I remembered I was still in the jaws of a two hundred pound omnivore whose hunger has never been closer than halfway to satiation. Once again, panic gripped me. But, again, the end did not come. Agatha deposited me gently in the grass and trotted off to find a bone she had previously buried somewhere in that yard.

I saw my chance and rolled away through that cool, green grass and under the fence. Who knows where I’d end up but anywhere outdoors was certainly better than inside that cold, dark refrigerator.

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