I head out on my daily journey to the other side at 9 a.m. on the dot. It is a day like every other: the loud-mouth rooster crowed at sunrise, that pesky mother collected our products (Susie failed to meet her quota again-rumor around the house is she’ll be sent to some sort of farm…Foster’s Farm, I think they call it)…anyway, the mom made the family’s breakfast, and the farmers set to work.
I’m older than Susie, but my daily walk has kept me in such good shape that I don’t think I will ever be sent to that Foster’s place. I don’t know how all my friends do it-sit on their tails all day, gossiping-I get cabin fever. I need to explore. This walk is all the excitement I get!
Just last night as I was heading back across the road I heard a strange sound above me and a shadow covered the ground. I looked up to see what it was and you know what I saw? None other than our very own Betsy, the milking cow, sailing over the moon! I mean I knew there was something strange about that cow, but I had no idea she was some freaky bird-cow hybrid! And then, as I was watching her, I was almost knocked over by a mushy couple that was not paying attention to where they were going. I turned to give them a piece of my mind and was shocked to see that it was Mrs. Jones’s cutlery! Yep, that’s right-but get this-it was a dish and a spoon! I’m dead serious-inter-dish dating! I remember the old days when plates dated bowls and spoons dated forks. Boy how times have changed!
Well, so far, today’s stroll is pretty typical. It’s a nice day in June, not too hot (I can tell because that big egg is sitting on his wall, not fried yet), and a bunch of trucks drove down the road this morning so it’s nice and smooth for me to walk across. I heard that the reason all those trucks flew by was because the whole town was out searching for some lost little girl. Yeah, supposedly she was wearing a red shawl with a hood and carrying a basket of food. She was walking through the woods yesterday evening and no one has seen her since. It was probably one of those damn wolves again. They’re so cocky, struttin’ around the woods like they own ‘em, always attacking those poor kids. But, oh well. Back to my walk. Oh jeeze, there’s that spoiled, blonde brat sitting on her tuffet. Hasn’t she ever heard of cereal, for cryin’ out loud? How the heck does she eat that curds and whey crap everyday? But I love that there are so many itsy-bitsy’s crawling around here to scare that silver spoon out of her mouth.
Speaking of spiders, that little tiny one is inching its way up the damn rain gutter…again. You would think that after all these years he’d learn that he’s just gonna get washed away and have to start all over.
“Whoa, dude! Watch out!” I yell at a sloth-like turtle that somehow sneaks up on me as I am lost in thought.
“Sorry, ma’am, but if you will please excuse me I am kind of in a hurry,” he replies in a surprisingly proper manner, his little round spectacles gleaming in the sun. “Hah! Are you even capable of being ‘in a hurry’?” I retort, laughing, proud of my quick wit, as I let him pass. I see him snicker as he turns to look at a lazy hare snoozing under a shade tree. Suddenly, his whole tone changes. “Maybe not, but I betcha I’ll still kick his ass!” he hollers back and continues on his s…l…o…w way.
“Well that’s one funny little turtle,” I say to myself, thinking my day may get interesting after all.
Baaah…baaaahh…I hear in the distance.
“Oops, sheep crossing!” I scurry quickly a few feet ahead to get out of their way. I must say, that Peep girl that leads them is the silliest looking creature! I’m pretty sure a bubble-gum factory threw up on her or something because she looks like that stuff you drink when you’re nauseous! And what’s with that huge candy cane thing she carries around with her? But she is a sweet girl so I always smile politely (while judging her in my head, of course) as she passes with her brood in tow.
Once the Peep show passes, I see Mrs. Jones vacuuming through the kitchen window on the other side. What should I do on this side today? I usually like to wander around the main house, the yard, and the pigpen that are over there, but I’m kinda bored with those pigs’ crazy antics. I mean, they’re so dramatic! Always building their little straw and brick houses to “protect” themselves from the “big bad wolf.” It’s a freakin’ Golden Retriever, for cryin’ out loud! How much tamer could you get? The wolves stay in the woods and the dogs barely even bark.
“Aha! I know what to do today,” I blurt out to myself as the idea strikes me and I step onto the family’s neatly mowed lawn.
After saying “hi” to Bruno, the nasty old cat guarding the porch, I walk purposefully to the front door of the Jones house. I hold my breath so as not to make a sound and frantically flap my almost useless wings until they lift me up just enough to ring the doorbell and fall back to earth with a thud. I quickly pick myself up and scamper around the corner to hide.
“Who’s there?” Mrs. Jones inquires as she opens the door and peers out. “Huh, that’s weird I coulda sworn I heard the doorbell.” “Oh my…hahaha….that was great!” I manage in my fit of cackling laughter. I make my way back around the corner, flap my wings, and repeat the act. “Now who’s there?!”…again, no one. I struggle to contain myself and not give away my hiding place, as the lady gets angry. “Whoever you are you best knock this off now!” and she slams the door shut so hard that the force knocks Bruno off his perch. “Wow, this just keeps getting better!!”
I entertain myself in this manner for most of the day, enjoying my new game that I have named “Ding-Dong Ditch.” But it starts to get dark and the farmers are heading home for supper. I better get back to my nest and sit on those darn eggs, they don’t lay themselves. As I begin to cross the road toward the hen house I am bombarded by even more lovey-dovey couples-a bowl and a knife, even a cup and a fork. And there goes Betsy…mooing along on her way to fly over stuff, I’m sure.
As the sun disappears behind the tool shed, the Jones’s windows fly open to let in the cool summer breeze. Suddenly I hear little Tommy cry to his mother, “Mom, the Boogieman! I know he’s under my bed, or in my closet, maybe! Will you pleeeeaasssee check?”
“Thomas Andrew Jones! How many times do I have to tell you? There is no such thing as the Boogieman!!” I smile and shake my head as I cross the street. If they only knew…