by [G]Emma
I remember that day so vividly…It was a chill October morning and the wind was howling. A particularly strong zephyr came whistling through the yard, shaking the walls of our coop and setting off a bout of nervous clucking from my harem.
“Oh do calm down,” I said to them as they ran around frantically, waddles all-a -jiggle. I sighed. Ever since Jack, my old flatmate, had been plucked, seasoned and stewed, I felt as though there was no one I could really talk to.
“I think I will go and get some air,” I announced to no one in particular.
As I stepped out, the cool air hit me like iced water; it was most refreshing after being in the stuffy coop. I needed to get away for a while. I began to look for a gap in the fence. I spied one and just managed to squeeze through, take three cautious struts, when there was a loud debilitating “AHEM.”
I reeled ’round, expecting to see Charlie or Caleb about to grab me, or tell me off, but instead an unusually distinguished chap in a navy blue blazer and walrus mustache, smoking a raspberry-scented cigar stood in front of me. I was stunned into quiet composure.
He took a few puffs and then spoke. “I say, are you looking to make an investment in the future?”
All I could muster in response was: “What?”
“AN INVESTMENT IN THE FUTURE!” he intoned loudly, again. “I can offer your hens wages for their eggs and free room board for you all, as long as you all shall live! There is really no opportunity you will ever find quite like this one, around here.”
As he spoke, he blew a fruity smoke ring around me. I coughed and blinked a few times, trying to absorb the information.
“What do you say? I have all the necessary contracts here with me…”
I didn’t know what to say. My first instinct was to turn down the offer; it all sounded too good to be true! But then greed got the better of me.
Before I knew it, my hens and I found ourselves in separate cages, alongside, not hundreds, but thousands of other chickens. After only a few hours of the horribly hot, dusty, feather-filled environ, I found myself reminiscing fondly about our stuffy little coop in our tiny backyard with our plentiful compost (which we would peruse whenever our garden, or dumpstered greens, were in short supply).
Needless to say, we were all quite horrified at our predicament. I could have given up right there and then except for the fact that Dumpy Thompson does not give up! And when I say doesn’t, I mean never!
As I could not pace, I pivoted in my 12 inch cubicle, trying to “hatch” a plan. Drat and Blast! Why did I sign those God-forsaken contracts! Something must be done. Or actually something must be NOT done! They wanted us for our eggs: for omelets or for offspring. We would not give them those eggs. We would strike; all the hens must stop laying eggs!
I must admit it was a simple plan, but it is my belief that simplicity is always best. I whispered my fool-proof-masterpiece-of-a-plan to my cage neighbors, who both quickly agreed it was indeed a genius plan, and they would pass the plan along the ranks. It was not too long before everyone was on board!
My own hens had little trouble not laying eggs; they were so traumatized by the inhumane treatment, I doubt if they could have laid an egg if they had wanted to. As for the others, they were somehow able to hold in the eggs and, within the week, we were all sent out into the yard.
We shivered and huddled in corners, wondering about our fate. It had been whispered that chickens who were turned out never came back. It was my belief we would have all ended up like good old Jack, if it hadn’t have been for those faux-feathered PETA angels, who had been, that very day, picketing on our behalf in the yard beside our pens. There were cheers and yells as the gate to our pen was flung open. We were herded with dignity into awaiting trucks and carried away from that dismal place.
We were victorious, it was eggcellent! I have been known as Dumpy, la pièce de résistance, ever since. Hazzah!
