Hazel

“Let me tell you something, mister, I am a purebred. Why, my grandfather won best of the show at the state fair, so if you think you can tell me I need to do anything but be beautiful, you have got a lot of gall,” squawked Hazel.

“Yes, my pet. Whatever you say,” replied Rupert as he guided the chicks into the building for the morning meal.

“Another thing I have been meaning to tell you. Mrs. Tweedy is giving us more oats instead of my preferred cracked corn,” the hen complained.

“I heard Mr. Tweedy say something about increased corn prices and switching to oats to keep egg costs down,” said the cockerel.

“Oh, yes, keep eggs cheap even if I must strain my muscles when I lay an egg. You do see my eyes bulging, don’t you?” Hazel asked.

“No, my precious, I hadn’t noticed,” answered Rupert.

“There, did you see that my left eye is uncontrollably twitching? What next beak droop?” cried the hen.

“I’m sure everything is fine. Now, why don’t you go and have a little lie-down, and I’m sure you’ll feel much better after,” suggested the rooster.

Rupert shepherded the chicks into the yard so they might scratch for grubs. He secretly prayed that Mrs. Tweedy would find a reason to eat him.

“Hell must be nice this time of year,” Rupert muttered. There was no hope that Mrs. Tweedy would take the hen. They were kindred spirits. He saw it in Mr. Tweedy’s eyes.

“That reminds me, Rupert, the Smiths are coming. It seems that farmer Thompson died, and the new owners have conditions prohibiting them from keeping chickens. The bothersome crow Sally was telling that fool of a goose yesterday,” said Hazel.

“That’s nice, dear. I like the Smiths. They’re salt of the earth birds,” offered the rooster.

“Oh, my, yes, salt and dirt types. Patricia is always going on about how her organic diet helps her tune into the spheres to produce a superior yolk. Sounds like a load of new-age tomfoolery to me,” remarked the hen.

“If you say so, pumpkin,” said Rupert.

The Tweedy Fowl-Egg Farm had been in slow decay, and now, with only six laying hens and Rupert, he feared the chicks would not last the season, sold off to pay mounting bills.

“I shall go and speak with Mrs. Tweedy about increasing the corn. The oats are ruining my complexion,” said Hazel as she strutted to the open kitchen door.

Rupert coraled the chicks and headed them to the open pen for their afternoon nap when suddenly, a loud squawk followed by a thump came from the kitchen.

Rupert’s beak fell open. He bowed his head and said, “Miracles still happen. Come children, we must prepare for our new guests, the Smiths. Please be sure to be on your best behavior, and Father will give you an extra grub before bed.”

I’m happy to say Tweedy’s Fowl-Egg Farm did not close. In fact, after Hazel’s demise, egg production tripled. Many attributed it to Mrs. Smith’s meditation classes, but others felt differently.

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