by Wally Setter
Nobody here but us chickens
|A Day on the Farm
Farmer Sam shooed four of his five roosters out of the chicken coop and into the surrounding pen, then latched the coop’s door.
The four roosters walked around looking for morsels of food that might be crawling about.
Farmer Sam set a pan of cracked corn in the center of the pen. “Here, chick, chick, chick. Here, chick, chick, chick.”
Henry, one of the four roosters, clucked, “You’d have thought he would have learned our names by now.”
Charley, Mike and Bob--the other three roosters--agreed, but then Mike spoke up, “Who cares? The farmer gives us everything, all the food we want, shelter; he provides for our every need. He does everything for us. Let’s eat.”
“Not everything. Remember the ladies? Woo woo hoo,” Bob crowed.
Charley let out a loud baw-uck. “Don’t start with the ladies again. Those hens won’t give any of us a second look since Skippy got here.”
Henry asked, “Who’s Skippy?”
Charley gave Henry a sharp peck to the back of his head. “Skippy is what I call Rick. Say, where is that upstart anyway?”
Bob answered, “Last time I saw him he was lovin’ up Martha.”
While the four roosters were eating their cracked corn, farmer Sam walked the short distance to his barn. He returned to the pen carrying a hatchet.
Henry asked, “What’s that thing in his hand?”
Charley replied, “That’s a hatchet. It’s something the farmer uses to chop things. Don’t you pay attention to what’s happening on the farm?”
“Nope. The farmer can do anything he wants, so long as I get what’s coming to me.”
Farmer Sam picked Bob up by the neck and carried him to a large wooden block. There he laid Bob on the block and, using his hatchet, quickly separated Bob’s head from his body.
“Did you see that?” Henry squawked.
“Yep, looks like Bob’s dead,” Charley clucked. “Good riddance, I’d say. Never did like Bob; always strutting around, acting like he was the cock of the walk.”
Mike and Henry clucked in agreement. “Well, more corn for us,” Mike added.
Chickens have a poor sense of the passage of time, but it seemed like only a few minutes before the farmer returned.
The farmer grabbed Henry by the neck and proceeded to the chopping block.
“Well, I’ll be. Looks like that’s the end of Henry,” Mike announced.
Charley clucked, “It’s about time. He was just a waste of feathers. Should have gotten rid of him a long time ago.”
Mike agreed, “Yeah, just a drag on our community; good riddance. Well, more corn for us.”
As before, farmer Sam returned. This time Mike met his fate.
That was fine with Charley. He always thought Mike was a turkey at heart anyway. Ridding Mike’s kind from the farm just made good sense.
Charley strutted around the pen, clucking as he went. He thought about how much better his world was now that all the riffraff were gone. He was pleased. This was a time for crowing. Just as he reared his head back to let out his greatest whoop of joy, he saw farmer Sam approaching, the hatchet in his hand still dripping blood. “Now what’s he going to…uh oh,” he gwaaked, as realization finally seeped in.