Winifred Seacock had devoted her life to saving the Taranaculus clivisphorum. In fact, she was given an award for her efforts by her country. “Awarded for preserving the Taranaculus clivisphorum for future generations,” said the citation. Winifred wore the medal with pride. She wore it only on formal occasions mind you; she wasn’t a show-off; she hadn’t let it go to her head.
Every day, for the last twenty-one years, Winifred had tended to the needs of the Taranaculus clivisphorum. People were amazed, naturally, at her dedication.
“There are possibly only four specimens left in the world,” said Winifred. “They should reproduce, but we simply don’t have the money.”
Donations poured in after that. A special compound was created, with the right climatic conditions.
And then, and then… it happened! Winifred was stung by the Taranaculus clivisphorum. On the finger. She had just enough time to swipe all four dead with a fly swot before she herself dropped dead from the poison.
“Take that, you ungrateful Taranaculus clivisphorums,” were her last words.