Thursday, April 30, 2009


After leaving the cows rather unhappy, our heroine farmer found the chickens on protest.

“What’s this about?” she asked them, since she was unable to read their chicken-size placards.

“NO MORE EGGS!” one chicken said.

“What the hell?”

“We don’t like eggs! We don’t want them!”

“Well, you don’t get to keep them. We do.”

“Murderers! You eat our children!” another chicken cackled.

“But you didn’t want them!”

“We should have the choice! Pro-choice! Pro-choice!”

“I dunno,” a little silky hen said. The farmer wasn’t even sure where this hen came from. She’d been dropped off or something because one day there was this little silky hen in the hen house with no explanation. “I say our eggs serve the greater good and if we don’t want to brood on them, the humans may as well use them.”

At last! The farmer sighed. A voice of reason. But as with all things political, the silky hen was charged with sexual misconduct and war crimes by the other chickens, tarred, feathered, and run out of the hen house.

Some days you just couldn’t reason with the chickens.

Since it was getting on quitting time (if there ever was such a thing) she went and got a beer. When she came back, the calves had gotten into the hay barn, a thing they’d been doing for months. When worried passersby stopped to point out the calves in the driveway, the farmer just shooed them back, since they never went anywhere anyway.

That was before.

Now the calves were having a serious case of pre-teenage angst and wandered as far from their mothers as possible. The cows themselves were glad of the relief; their udders were chapped and sore after a long winter in and out of wet mouths and cold wind. The farmer decided not to both putting the calves back in the pen. They’d go back when they were good and ready and gates kept them from escaping the hay barn. While she drank her beer, she wandered around, filling waters, pushing up hay, all the usual night stuff. When she went to the back barn to check on the baby lambs, a scramble under the front axle of the flat bed wagon made her jump and spill her beer. The farmer bent down to peek under the wagon and was met with a rather astonishing surprise.

To be continued…

Next time: Who’s your daddy?

So hopefully these episodes entertain you as much as they do me. There's not much going on right now, just the usual springtime-farm-garden-writing-install-a-new-water-heater stuff, so at least this is more interesting than hearing me list what we do around here most days. Be sure to tell me if this isn't that funny or any other comments or confusions. Happy Day.