“I am a buffalo,” he said, standing at the bus stop, leaning forward with his arms hanging, perhaps reminiscent of a buffalo’s front legs.

“Are ya now?” asked the bus driver. “Yer not the guy who just crashed that fancy car into my bus?” Delayed passengers stood around and glared.

“Definitely not,” said the man. “It’s imperative that I be a buffalo just now. The herds are thinning. I must protect the cows.” He fidgeted. “Also, it wasn’t my car.”

“Then whose was it, I wonder,” said the driver.

“I’m just a buffalo,” said the man. He lowed. “I couldn’t know it was my brother’s car.” The buffalo figure shrank a little. “If he finds out, he’ll make the buffalo extinct.”

The driver stuck her hands in her pockets. Looked at the sky. Tried to balance mounds of paperwork against the soft lowing of this gentle, majestic creature.

“Well,” she said, “looks like whoever rammed me ran off. Someone who didn’t look anything like a buffalo. Probably stole the keys off a friendly buffalo.” The buffalo smiled up at her. “Who should get outta here and, uh, protect some cows.”

The buffalo lowed gratefully as it swayed through the crowd.