Thursday, 7 July 2011
Thursday @ 3 - "A CochonaryTale"
Has intensive animal husbandry bred out the 'survival' instinct in the farmyard? Perhaps not completely; this week's 'Thursday@3' veers towards all matters bucolic - but not necessarily in the idyllic sense!
(excuse the play on (French) words for the title! :-p)
A COCHONARY TALE
The goat was right all along; none of us dumb animals is worth diddly-squat when push comes to shove.
That things have changed in management circles is evident in the three long days and nights we’ve been left to fend for ourselves.
The chickens have scattered haphazardly around the yard, scratching out something of a poor living from any seeds and grubs they can hunt out.
The goat bleats in between tearing strips of ivy from the wall.
“I to-old you so-o!” he croaks hoarsely at me, lifting his nose over the boundary of my domain. He smells the cool rainwater that’s collected in the old tin bath in the corner. I suppose he’d slake his thirst if he could; pity he’s tethered. Then again, if he were able to roam free nothing would be safe from his cavernous belly.
The curtains haven’t moved again, I see. The light in the upper room has been on for the duration of this enforced sabbatical. I can’t help feeling all is not well in that house; even the phone has remained unanswered.
The goat is busily chewing again; I am a little tired of his constant mandibular activity. The thunderous echoes of my empty belly remind me of my own hunger. The stream of glorious leftovers that I am accustomed to is becoming a distant memory.
In quiet moments I fantasize on one of the fowls fluttering onto the wall, perhaps to cheekily avail themselves of my water supply. A deft thwack of a judiciously-aimed trotter and it would all be over, bar the blood and feathers and licking my lips.
Meanwhile I laze in the morning sun, semi-comatose in my sty, realising that for once we are not the centre of Farmer Jack’s universe. Diddly-squat is about right.