chickens · Farming · Goats · horror · Humor · Musings · Neighbors

“Dear My Neighbor,…”

(Donald Trump having visitation with one of his offspring)

 

The text didn’t take him long to compose.

“Dear my neighbor JD. Your goat is being on my property again and mutilating our agreement to be keeping the animals separate due to I am very particular about their safety and breeding issues. We must resume serious discussion again at earliest convenience. Sincerely, me.”

Ranjit was sick and tired of his Mexican neighbor’s animals constantly being on his property.

JD on the other hand,  was flabbergasted. He had walked his entire perimeter ten times and saw neither hide nor hair of a clue as to how the large hairy goat, Fabio, got there. Not only was he mutilating the agreement, he was mutilating  Ranjit’s she-goats. Fabio was an impressive specimen: he had a massive brown head with white racing stripes across the eyes and just below his fearsome horns. He was always pawing at the ground, just like in the cartoons and had a particular affinity for butting the poplar tree that had never done anyone any harm, right in the navel.

We call it the navel because it looked like someone planted the tree upside down and when a stiff branch broke off right where a navel would have been, it left a perfect inny. The trunk then splayed shamelessly into two massive branches a foot above the navel, seducing neighborhood kids to climb it, then jump off, and break their necks.

JD is easy-going and is always ready to tell, or make, a great story, complete with theatrics. He has a million animals on his property because he can never say no to anyone that offers him animals they can’t keep. He has thousands of cows, horses,  yakalos, bears, and tigers. And goats. He has tens of thousands of chickens, ducks, turkeys, and mean geese. You must be careful walking around his property, for at any given time, you are liable to step on an egg or four, and there’s no telling if it’s a chicken- or a kimodo dragon-egg. With this uncertainty in mind, you must also be careful when he blesses you with a tray of delicious farm-fresh eggs, stegosaurus-like plates sticking out of some of them.

Neighbor Ranjit, on the other hand, likes things just so. He had 8 Rhode Island White chickens and 4 Toggenburg goats.

“Females only,” he says sticking an authoritative fore-finger in the air and greatly enlarging his already huge East-Indian eyes. “Males are notorious for the filth and mess that is incongruously unacceptable.” He blinked forcefully whereupon his eyes returned to their normal size. My head jerked back an inch at this transition. His raised finger remained at attention much longer than I deemed necessary. He finally lowered his hand, slowly, like a car window being retracted by a power button, his finger still sticking straight up.

I cocked my head, somewhat stupefied, and expected his finger to disappear into the joint like an antenna. His gaze followed mine to the finger, as though wondering why I was staring at it. I looked back at his face, a little abashed.

He HAD 8 Rhode Island Whites. He now has 13. This was no plan of his for that is “amounting to gross negligence,  over-breeding, and utmost irresponse-bility of cross-breeding. There are enough phasianids running around,” he noted passionately, said finger in the air, like a microphone.

See, JD has a hilarious looking orange naked-neck we call Donald Trump.  As he was leaving for work early one morning, he was utterly dismayed – and relieved – to see Trump flying over the fence from Ranjit’s property back to his own. His work crew was already running late for work so JD had to leave immediately but  upon his return,was sure to trim it’s wing feathers to prevent future incidents of flying the coop. He was glad Ranjit hadn’t noticed and promptly forgot the matter until 4 weeks later when he received a text  demanding his “prompt and immediate audience for a matter of urgent attention.”

JD, sure that Ranjit needed a favor, rushed over there ready to lend his neighborly assistance. He was met by a mortifying sight. Ranjit marched up to him at the gate – microphone in position, eyes at full beam, and fuming like a bull. He pointed east beyond the chicken coop, temporarily lacking for words.

“This is vhat I have been talking about!!” he finally spat out, fighting to control his rage.

There, in front of God and everybody, was the cutest clutch of orange baby naked-necks, following proud mama Rhode Island White around and pecking  at the ground. There was no denying who the proud papa was.

That was 4 months ago.

And here he was now, needing to answer the summons that Fabio had been nabbed red-handed “mutilating” the she-goats. His hands were sweating as he headed to Ranjit’s to retrieve Fabio and explain himself. One of his employees, laughing his head off, said, “JD, tell him, “you know those Mexicans, they know how to dig.””

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