Months passed before I finally gave in to the curiosity that was burning away inside of me. We were still here and the inn, where the days were uneventful and the nights were horribly dreary. I still picked up whispers on the street of the farm that had done what none of the others had before. The people were appalled, but I had no idea what could possibly be going on back home. I would fly through the streets under the cover of the dark shadows that loomed through the town, past homes and pubs hoping to catch anything that was a fact about the animals. But it seemed as though nobody had a clue and everything I heard was fiction; the animals becoming cannibals, they were dying, or even that they were going on perfectly with their lives. I had no way to know how the animals were faring, and it was frustrating. I had nothing to do to pass the long hours of the day anymore. There were no morning rounds for me to attend to, Mrs. Jones had secluded herself into our small room at the inn, and Mr. Jones was still stuck in his own little inebriated world where he could just drink away his problems. All that there was left for me to do was reminisce old memories from long ago where the animals now were just little babies and I was still the most treasured animal there was.