Please forgive me. I'm about to post yet another pretend farmer entry.
I woke up this morning feeling a tinge of guilt. After Frankenbelle, the evil rooster stalked me in my garden again and then went after Wise One while he was feeding scraps, I gave Frankenbelle away yesterday to the real farmers, the Green Jeans, next door, “Do with him what you will, but please don’t tell my children if you decide to EAT him.” I can imagine Mr. Green Jeans rolling his eyes over the phone line. Why have a farm if you won’t eat your own chickens? He will never understand that all thirty-nine in our flock are pets who kindly give us eggs in exchange for our friendship.
So first thing this morning, I hear our pitiful Silkie rooster “crowing” his good mornings for us. He doesn’t exactly crow the strong and manly Frankenbelle’s “ER, ER, ER, ER, ERRRR”; Silkie’s is more like a weak woman’s fading scream. It’s quite the sight- a rooster who looks like a black teacup poodle bird proudly belting out a girly holler.
Tator rode over on Mr. Green Jeans four wheeler with Frankenbelle in a cat carrier in his lap. He sighed when he came home with the report, “I feel sorry for Belle. Mr. Green Jeans put him in a little cage (about the size of a large dog crate). What if Mr. Green Jeans doesn’t let him out to run like we do?” My less than brilliant answer, “Son, we can’t have animals around which hurt people on our farm. Mr. Green Jeans will be nice and take care of Belle, as they do with all their farm animals. If he let’s Belle go free, Belle will march right back up here to rule again.”
Besides, and not to worry, Belle is probably the father of all the chicks peeping on our home school table under warming lights. Who knows how many will end up being just like him. Sigh.
We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.
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