By Anna Sheffer
Featured Art: “The Bride” by Alex Brice

The buffalo’s tail swished. Clumps of sod mashed around in its mouth. Dana watched through the sliding glass door, safely hidden behind the curtains. If she wasn’t so afraid, it would have been funny, spying on this creature demolishing their yard as if it were an inconsiderate neighbor. But the welcome pamphlet had said these animals were unpredictable—not to be approached under any circumstance—so she was on hold with the nature preserve, listening to jazz flute riffs while wrapped in the curtains she had bought less than a month ago.  

Libby materialized, round four-year-old stomach protruding in front of her. A plastic horse figurine dangled by its mane from her closed fist. “Mommy, what are you doing?” She had been playing quietly in front of the TV just minutes ago; why couldn’t she go back to whatever she’d been up to?  

Before Dana could reply, Libby peeked around the curtain and let out a delighted squeal. “Look, mommy, a buffafwo! Did you see it?” 

“Yes, mommy saw it.” 

“He’s so fuzzy! Mommy, look how fuzzy he is. Can I go give him a carrot? Pretty please?” 

“Lovebug, that’s a wild animal.” The looping hold music started over, and she tried to remain focused on the phone call despite Libby’s crescendoing pleas. 

The line clicked, and the ranger picked up. He asked how he could help, and she explained, as calmly as she could, that there was a buffalo in her yard. 

“A buffalo?”  

“It’s not a joke, I swear. I think it must have escaped.” 

“Does the bison have a tag or other identifier?” 

She risked another peek around the curtain. The animal was still there, chewing up the grass. A muddy pile steamed on the ground beneath it. Ignoring the mess she would certainly have to clean up later, she squinted at the animal’s legs. “I can’t tell.” 

“Maybe you’re too far away.” 

“What, do you want me to go out there and get trampled?”  

“Ma’am, please calm down. No one is asking you to approach the bison.” 

Libby danced in front of the sliding glass door, wiggling her hips and banging the plastic horse against the glass. She tucked the phone under her chin and mouthed at her daughter to get away from there.  

“Please hurry,” she told the ranger. “I have a child.” 

The ranger promised someone would be over as soon as possible and promptly hung up.  

The buffalo—bison? she wasn’t sure what the difference was—looked at her with liquid dark eyes and flared its nostrils. A cape of matted fur clung to its shoulders and neck like the robes of a disgraced monarch. The thought made her pity the beast, which looked cramped and unnatural in her yard. She moved out from behind the curtains and pressed her palm against the glass. The animal pawed at the dirt, and she retreated. 

When the preserve van pulled up, she was cutting a grilled cheese sandwich into strips with a pizza cutter—the only way Libby would eat it. She washed her hands and answered the door to a man dressed in khaki coveralls. He wore his thinning hair in a low ponytail that made her think of Benjamin Franklin. 

“Pest control,” the ponytailed man deadpanned. When she didn’t laugh, he cleared his throat and added, “just a joke ma’am. I’m from the preserve.” He stuck out a hand in a rough leather glove. 

“Thanks for coming so quickly.” 

“Of course.” Slung over his shoulder was a long-muzzled gun. “This should only take a couple minutes. In the meantime, please make sure everyone in the household stays out of the yard.”  

“You’re not going to kill it, are you?” She imagined Libby’s face crumpling over the sight of the animal’s body, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. She had not yet discussed death with her daughter, and this was not how she had planned to do so. 

“No, ma’am. CO2 action dart pistol.” He patted the muzzle. “We’ll tranquilize our friend out there, then relocate him once it’s safe. No animals will be harmed in the making of this production.” 

The ranger’s boots clomped across her carpet and out the front door. Dana tiptoed to the sliding glass door to watch. When they’d moved to this house, her mother had sniffed that living so close to wild animals couldn’t be safe for Libby. If she could see Dana cowering behind her living room curtains, she would have a field day. 

The buffalo raised its head at the sound of the ranger’s approach. Its eyes were not black like she had assumed but brown and heavy-lidded, its sleepy gaze unsurprised she would react so hysterically, calling the preserve when all the buffalo had done was have a little snack. Yes, very predictable for a thirty-something suburban white woman, the buffalo seemed to say. Boring, even. 

“I had to,” she whispered.  

With a sharp, light thwip, the ranger’s dart buried itself in the buffalo’s flank. The animal snorted once, its eyes widening. The tail whipped back and forth, and the animal lowered its head, shaking its horns. It staggered forward. Dana’s whole body clenched. The animal picked up its front hoof, then froze and toppled to the ground with a thud. 

At the sound, Libby emerged from her bedroom, arms bracing herself against the wall. “Mommy, earthquake!” 

“Don’t worry, Lovebug, everything’s okay.” Dana drew the curtains closed, blocking the view of the ranger pacing circles around the downed buffalo. “Come eat your grilled cheese.” 

“Will there be more earthquakes?” 

“No earthquake, just some construction outside.” She set the grilled cheese slices on Libby’s favorite green plastic plate.  

Libby perched on the edge of her chair, swinging her legs, and tore off chunks of grilled cheese. She was wearing the dinosaur costume again, a onesie with a floppy ridge of felt scales down the back. A holdover from last Halloween. Libby had fallen in love with a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle costume at Target, but Dana said no. It cost sixty dollars. She wasn’t going to be the kind of mother who bought her child’s love with themed birthday parties and plastic toys. Jason thought this stand was ridiculous, a losing battle, but she’d held firm. Libby watched almost no TV—certainly not Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles—and she would not be wearing an overpriced piece of merchandising for Halloween. Instead, Dana sewed scales onto a green onesie and called it a dinosaur costume. Now Libby wouldn’t take the damn thing off. 

“Lovebug, when you’re done with lunch, why don’t you go put on something else?” 

A noise halfway between a whine and groan escaped Libby’s mouth.  

“Libby, please. Mommy needs to wash the dinosaur costume. You’ve worn it every day this week.” 

“No.” Libby’s open mouth displayed a chewed-up paste of grilled cheese. “You said I could choose.” 

“You have lots of other nice clothes Mommy bought you. Besides, aren’t you hot?” 

More whining noises mixed with open-mouthed chewing sounds. Someday, Dana consoled herself, Libby would bathe on her own and would wear normal clothes and would have table manners that didn’t resemble those of a starving hyena. But right now, Libby slid, wailing, down the length of the chair and puddled onto the floor.  

“You promised,” she choked out between sobs. 

“I know, I know, Mommy’s a mean old hag.” The words came out instinctively, before she could stop them, leaving her throat burning with the irritation in her voice. She rubbed at the taut, shiny x on the back of her hand, a scar she’d gotten while playing with gardening shears as a child. 

Libby continued crying as if nothing had happened. Dana inhaled through her nose and started listing fruits—a grounding exercise she’d learned from her therapist. Apple, banana, cherry, date. Then, adjusting her volume, she said, “Honey, we talked about this. You need to listen to Mommy, okay? Tomorrow you can wear the dinosaur costume, once it’s nice and clean again.” 

“Promise?” 

“Yes, I promise.” 

Libby ran for her bedroom. Once her daughter was out of sight, Dana pulled back the curtain and again looked through the sliding glass door. Two more rangers had arrived, and the three dragged the buffalo through her yard on what looked like a stretcher. Soon, only a few muddy piles hinted at what had happened. 

*** 

After Libby went to bed, Dana and Jason liked to have a drink—Corona for Jason, LaCroix for Dana, who’d been sober since college. That night, Jason complained about work—a chiweenie at the vet’s office had bit one of the techs so bad they needed to go home early. Dana told him about Libby’s refusal to change out of the dinosaur costume. 

“She’s got spunk,” Jason said with a laugh. “Did you hear what she told me when I got home?” 

Dana sipped her LaCroix and tried to arrange her face into a neutral expression.  

“She said there was a buffalo in the yard. Where does she come up with this stuff?” 

She would probably have to tell him eventually. He would see the ripped-up grass and piles of shit and wonder what had happened. She set her can down on the table and brushed a few crumbs off the placemat. “Well, there was a buffalo.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I saw it in the yard this morning, so I called the preserve and they sent someone out to relocate it. It really did a number on the lawn though.” 

“Dana. What?” 

“I know. I’ll clean up the yard tomorrow.” She plucked his empty bottle from the countertop and tossed it into the recycling bin next to the sink. No matter how many times she reminded him, he never remembered to put his bottles in the recycling. 

“Forget about the yard. Was Libby outside during all this?” 

Defensiveness fizzed warm in her chest. “No, of course not. She was inside with me.”  

“Okay, good.” 

“I would never let her outside with a wild animal.” The catch in her throat surprised her. It must have surprised Jason too because the worry lines on his forehead creased.  

“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” 

“I was watching her the whole time.” 

“No, I know. Libby is lucky to have you. We both are.” He brushed his thumb against her wedding band, a gesture Dana usually found comforting. She had to resist the urge to yank her hand away. 

 He hadn’t meant it like that, she knew. He was a good dad who was worried about his daughter. Asking about her was only natural. And yet. Dana still remembered the way those shears had sliced open her hand while her mother was passed out inside. She’d always told herself she would do better. 

*** 

Dana couldn’t sleep. She’d tried listing produce again, but when she got to C for Carrots, she remembered the only vegetables left in the crisper were some slimy baby carrots and a head of lettuce. She’d meant to go grocery shopping that day but hadn’t, distracted by the buffalo. Could she go now? No, it was past midnight. Now Jason would have nothing to pack in his lunch tomorrow. She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, willing the sun to come up and the grocery stores to open.  

A sliver of light fell across her face. Libby’s shadow stretched across the floor of their bedroom. Dana shut her eyes again. Would it be so bad if she stayed in bed, pretended she was asleep? 

But Libby whispered, “Mama,” and that one little word wormed itself into her ribcage. Jason slept on his stomach, breathing through his open mouth, unaware that anything was wrong. Dana got out of bed as quietly as she could and led Libby out into the hall, only a little bitter that her husband was better at sleeping than she was. 

“What is it, baby?” 

“I had a nightmare.” Libby still dragged her plastic horse around by its hair. What had she named the horse again? Dana couldn’t remember, and now she wished she’d paid more attention to this, the charm that guarded her daughter against the dark.  

“It’s okay,” she said, smoothing her hand over Libby’s hair. “Let’s go lie down together.” 

Back in Libby’s room, they lay side by side on the twin-sized trundle bed. In the process of trying to get comfortable, Libby kicked Dana in the liver. Her brown hair fanned across Dana’s face, smelling like her plant-based, melon shampoo. Before long, Libby had dropped off to sleep, her little body limp and loose and draped across Dana’s arms. 

“Don’t lie down with them, or they’ll never let you leave,” Dana’s mother had advised when she learned Dana was pregnant. “I never shared a bed with you, and you turned out fine.” 

Dana refrained from reminding her mother about her scar, about having to cook dinner for the two of them three nights a week, about all the times she’d been left to walk the two miles home after band practice. 

Libby sighed in her sleep. Her mouth hung wide open in a way that shouldn’t have been cute but was. If Dana had listened to her mother and had never lain down next to Libby, how would she have ever noticed the way her daughter’s mouth twitched in her sleep or the single freckle at the corner of her eye? How had this strange, sloppy, feral creature ever come out of her?  

Numbness started to creep along her arm. She disentangled herself, then went to close the curtains on Libby’s window. Her neck prickled. There was movement in the yard. The buffalo was back, tail swishing at flies.  

Dana stepped back from the window. There must have been a mistake with the relocation, an accident. Maybe the buffalo hadn’t been moved far enough, or maybe it had fallen off the stretcher as the rangers carried it away. Maybe the cattle guards were defective.  

With light steps, she made her way downstairs and onto the porch, where she dialed the preserve. The call went straight to voicemail, an out-of-office message informing her that business hours were between eight a.m. and five p.m. Mountain Time. She googled the local Animal Control number and dialed, pacing in small, tight circles while the line rang and rang. After the fifth ring, it clicked over to voicemail.  

Dana stared at her phone, catastrophizing. The sliding glass door could shatter into a fine, sparkling dust, allowing the buffalo to rampage through her living room; or Libby might skip into the yard with a fistful of carrots and get gored right through her little chest; or the thousand-pound animal might stomp on Jason’s car as he left for work, squashing him inside.  

When they’d moved in, the HOA had sent them a welcome package, complete with a guide to living near a wildlife preserve. Living near wild animals came with risks, the guide declared, and Dana had rolled her eyes. As if she couldn’t have guessed there would be risks. Now, she peered down the sloping side yard to the feasting buffalo and had to admit she hadn’t foreseen this. Wild animals wouldn’t get into her yard, she told herself, if there were actually competent people at the preserve. If they found her body mashed into a pudding on the grass, well, really they would have no one to blame but themselves. 

From her fridge, she grabbed the globe of lettuce and walked out the sliding glass door and through the yard, letting leaves flutter to the ground behind her. At first it was quiet, but then hooves came clomping over the concrete. 

Then they stood in the street—she, still barefoot and in her pajamas, the buffalo looking at her for more lettuce. Libby was right: it was fuzzy, surprisingly so. Dana turned away before she could get more distracted and walked forward, the pavement rough against her bare feet. With each step, she dropped a fresh leaf of lettuce, and the buffalo followed. 

In the dark, the neighborhood felt separated from the outside world by thin paper walls. The houses were disorienting in their sameness, in a way that reminded her of her mother’s old condo complex, two miles from the high school. It was close enough that when Dana got out of band practice and didn’t see her mother’s Plymouth Breeze in the parking lot, she’d start walking. 

Even now, winding through the walking paths behind the preserve with a buffalo on her heels, Dana felt as if she might turn a corner and find the Plymouth Breeze waiting. It would ferry her to the condo, where she would have to navigate a maze of overstuffed shopping bags and old newspapers and empty vodka bottles to get to her childhood bedroom. When they bought the house at the preserve, with its three bedrooms and pristine white cabinets and oatmeal-colored walls, Dana thought it would keep her from ever ending up back in that condo. The house had seemed like the condo’s opposite—spacious, peaceful, uniform.  

But of course, instead of her mother’s condo, the trail led to the nature preserve. The land around her opened up, and, as if spurred by some unseen rider, the buffalo surged past her into the field where the rest of the herd stood, clumped together in little family units. 

*** 

The next morning, Dana sat at the table with her head propped in her hand, a mug of coffee and a half-eaten bagel in front of her. Libby danced in front of the TV—some technicolor show about animated blue heelers Dana didn’t normally let her watch. The bad dream from the night before had dissolved like cotton candy in water, leaving only morning sweetness behind. Dana’s thoughts, on the other hand, swarmed with buffalo and grocery lists and Plymouth Breezes. 

A little after eight, Jason came down the stairs, teeth brushed and face freshly shaven. He poured himself a cup of coffee, then kissed her on the check. “Did you sleep okay?” 

“Just fine.” She bit into her bagel and chewed until it became a flavorless paste.  

“What time did you get up this morning?” Jason slurped his coffee. She tried not to grimace at the sound.  

“Six,” she said. “Libby woke me up early.” After dealing with the buffalo, she had spent two hours tossing and turning before giving up. She drifted into the kitchen and had been there since.  

Jason looked like he could tell she was lying but didn’t say anything, which was for the best. If she told him she hadn’t been able to sleep, he would ask why, and she wasn’t in the mood to answer any of his questions. He picked his lunchbox up from the counter and stood hovering in front of the door. Had he always held his arms like that? Like someone who just discovered they had arms?  

Before either of them could say anything else, the landline rang in its cradle. Jason picked it up, an action smooth and automatic. While he mmm-hmmed at the person on the other end of the line, Dana scraped the remnants of her bagel into the trash. Whoever was calling at eight in the morning needed to relax. There was no way they couldn’t wait until a more reasonable hour.  

“Thank you for calling back,” Jason said. “We appreciate it.” He put the phone back in its cradle. “You called the preserve last night?” 

She swallowed coffee so quickly it burned her mouth.  

“The buffalo came back, didn’t it?” 

No point in denying it when the preserve had just called. “You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you and make you worry. But I took care of it.” 

He tightened his grip on his lunchbox. “We shouldn’t have to deal with this. It’s dangerous.” 

“It’s not going to happen again. We’ll build a fence, we’ll complain to the preserve if we have to. But I promise you, this is not something you need to worry about.”  

Jason grunted and turned the doorknob. His lunchbox dangled from his unoccupied arm, and Dana remembered the sad, slimy carrots at the bottom of the crisper.  

“Wait,” she said to his back.  

He paused and looked over his shoulder. 

“I forgot to pick up groceries yesterday. Did you have enough to pack for lunch?” 

His shoulders relaxed a little. “Don’t worry about it. I made a PB&J.” He picked at the lunchbox handle. “Sorry, but I need to get going. Need to prep for an extra anxious cat at nine-thirty.” 

The garage door swung shut behind him but didn’t fully latch. Dana walked over and pushed it closed herself. She returned to the kitchen table, resolving to make a grocery list. She opened her phone and navigated to the Notes app. The screen blurred. Her eyelids felt heavy. Maybe she could wait to make a grocery list until later. 

The end credits for the show Libby had been watching started to play, and Libby bopped over to the kitchen table where Dana sat.  

Dana reached deep inside herself and smiled, then mustered up enough faux-enthusiasm to declare, “You’re still wearing your jammies! Why don’t you go get dressed—the dinosaur costume is all clean and ready for you. Maybe then we can color.” She pulled Libby to her and kissed the top of her head, breathing in that melon shampoo smell again.  

Libby skipped to her room, leaving the TV running. Dana washed her dishes then walked over to the couch, intending to turn off the TV, but the animated dog parents were playing with their children, the voice actors’ giggles making her smile. She decided she’d earned a break and sat on the couch. Libby returned, wearing the dinosaur costume, and began humming and scribbling with crayons—hopefully on an actual sheet of paper. The noise was soothing enough that Dana felt her body melt into the couch, her eyes close.  

The next thing she knew, Libby was patting her arm. “Mommy, look.” 

Dana rubbed her face and pushed herself into a sitting position. With a grunt, she took the piece of paper from Libby and squinted at the mass of green squiggles.  

“Beautiful, Lovebug,” she said, holding the paper closer to her face. “Spaghetti?”  

“No, Mommy. It’s Walter.” 

“Walter?” The name conjured nothing in her mind, only fears that her daughter might be seeing ghosts. 

“Walter,” Libby repeated, as if it should be obvious. “The buffafwo?” 

“Right. That Walter.” She stared again at the paper, trying and failing to assemble the amorphous squiggles into a buffalo. Once Libby had turned her back and skipped away, Dana shoved the paper between the couch cushions. 

“Walter, where are you?” Libby sang out. She bounced from sofa to glass door to kitchen table. 

“Walter’s not here, Lovebug,” Dana said. “Walter went back home, where Walter belongs. Come watch TV with Mommy. Let’s have quiet time.” Good god, she was tired. Each line of Australian-accented dialogue dribbled through her mind without sticking. She curled onto her side and turned up the volume, hoping the sound would entice Libby to sit down.  

Libby shrieked, banged her fists against the glass door. The sound was a pickax chipping away at Dana’s patience.  

“Let’s use our inside voices, Lovebug.” 

“Walter!” 

“Libby. What did I just say?” Her patience was starting to crack. She inhaled deeply and thought of the fruits again. Apple— 

Another excited shriek, this one louder than the first. Then Dana was on her feet. “Knock it off. Now.” 

Libby pressed her finger to the sliding glass door and looked over her shoulder at Dana. “But Mommy, Walter—”  

“Shut up—” Dana started to say, but then she stopped. There, breath fogging up the sliding glass door, stood the buffalo.  

Libby giggled and waved, smacking the door. The animal stomped once.  

“Get away from the door,” Dana said. 

The buffalo tossed its head. Libby was reaching for the door handle, chubby fingers stretched in preparation to flip the lock. Dana imagined the door opening, Libby tossed in the air like a beach ball, Jason’s look of betrayal when he realized she had lied to him and put Libby in danger, her mother crowing motherhood was harder than it looked. 

Her throat seized. She lunged and grabbed Libby’s arm, then yanked her backwards. Her daughter whimpered in pain. Squeezing Libby’s bicep with her left hand, Dana pulled out her phone with her right. Libby tried to squirm free, but Dana clamped her hand tighter, ignoring the pitiful “Ow, Mommy.” 

She recognized the voice of the ponytailed ranger at the other end of the line, and she told him to hurry up and get the goddamned buffalo out of her yard or she was going to sue. “Shoot it, relocate it, I don’t care. This thing keeps coming back and I need it gone. Don’t you people realize how dangerous it is?” 

Beside her, Libby sniffled, then began to cry. Dana shushed her. The ranger promised he would send someone over right away, this would never happen again, the subdivision was normally a very uneventful place. Libby’s whimpers continued, and she strained at Dana’s grasp. Dana kept her grip firm, her old scar pulled shiny and taut. 

The ranger offered free passes to a kid’s conservation class, a special meet-and-greet with the preserve’s peregrine falcon.  

“Just take care of the buffalo,” Dana said. “That’s all I want.” 

Libby’s struggle stopped. She stood still, tears and snot running down her face as she whimpered to herself. Someone was on their way, the ranger said. They would be there in ten minutes. If Dana needed anything else, she should not hesitate to call. 

Dana released her grip on Libby’s arm. Tears streaked her daughter’s face. Four red finger-marks circled her bicep. Dana thought she could feel them too, squeezing her windpipe till she couldn’t breathe. 

She knelt and opened her arms. “Did Mommy do that? I’m so sorry, Lovebug. I didn’t mean to.” 

Libby looked at her and slunk off to her room like a frightened house cat.  

There was still a lump in Dana’s throat. She rubbed the back of her hand, then her own bicep, wanting to follow Libby to her room but afraid of that wounded-animal look in her daughter’s eyes. 

Through the sliding glass door, the buffalo watched Dana. “This is your fault,” she whispered, jabbing her finger at it. 

The buffalo continued to chew. Dana felt her anger deflate, the adrenaline draining from her body. She leaned against the door and pressed her palm flat against the glass. “No, it’s not. I’m sorry.” 

The buffalo—bison, she remembered—looked at her with its quiet eyes. If Dana looked hard enough, she thought she could see herself reflected in their massive pupils. Before she could be sure, the buffalo lowered its head for another bite. 

---

Anna Sheffer holds an MFA from the University of Colorado Boulder. Her fiction has previously appeared in Porter House Review, phoebe, and The Greensboro Review. She currently lives in Los Angeles. Find her on Instagram (@a.na.grams) and Bluesky (‪@annasheffer.bsky.social‬).