Way, way back in another lifetime, I was living in the little village of Jondaryan, Queensland. One day, my
neighbor Farmer Jim asked me to care for his chooks (that’s chickens to you) for a week. Simple enough. Feed twice a day, make sure they have plenty of water, and make sure to close their gate in the evenings so the foxes don’t help themselves to chook dinner. Simple, you betcha, Blind Freddy could do this.
For the next few days, morning and evening, I would ride my horse Drum down along the track that led to Farmer Jim’s property, Gretal following along. There, I would diligently feed and water the chooks, collect the eggs, lock them up for the night, and do a head count. Yep, all was going well.
Chook-sitting became a pleasant part of my daily routine, but winter was fast approaching and the days were getting shorter. Herein lies a problem.
I arrived as normal one evening, and the sun was setting. Well, nearly anyway. I tied up Drum to a post and set about doing my chooky duties. Usually, by this time, the chooks were aware of my presence and ran into their enclosure, clucking in anticipation of food. Today, silence. No movement of any kind. Oh, no — no chooks.
My heart pounded with fear as I ran around in blind panic. Farmer Jim would be home in a couple of days, what would he say? He would be devastated. I would be chastised, reprimanded, seen as an irresponsible chook-sitter, and never again would I be asked to chook sit. Well, no chooks, no chook-sitting. I would be treated like a leper in the community, exiled. Oh, no.
Once I settled down a little, I concluded that it was cattle duffers, no sorry, chook duffers. It couldn’t have been foxes. For what I knew of them, they did their skulking and killing in the dark of night and were usually very messy, leaving behind a telltale trail of blood and feathers. Well, so the story went. Here now was only an eerie silence as I searched the out buildings around the house for evidence of chook duffers.
Now, my anxiety levels had reached their peak once more. With panic and adrenalin coursing through my body, I mounted my trusty steed and took off down the road to call in the local constabulary, Constable Bill Big.
“Come quick, quick, chook duffers, you know, like cattle duffers!” I yelled at the Constable. “Farmer Jim’s chooks are all gone!” I gasped almost at screaming pitch. “Come quick!”
Constable Bill Big took notes slowly and diligently. He looked down at me from his six-foot-six height with a sneer on his lips. “Chook duffers? Never had anything like that happen around here before, you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. The chooks, they’re all gone, disappeared. Oh, what will Farmer Jim say when he gets back? Oh, woe is me!”
The troops rallied at Farmer Jim’s, including the Abernathys in their old utility and half a dozen silent children. My husband and kids had come wandering down the track to see where I was, probably for no other reason than that there was no dinner on the table. It just wasn’t my day.
By this time, it was quite dark and we all spread out in search of the elusive chooks. Torch lights wavered around the out buildings and dams and muffled voices carried over the normally quiet farm. “Here, chook chook chook!” I could hear the children calling. “Here, chook chook!”
I’d had to tie Gretel up with my horse, Drum, whilst I dealt with my on my chook-sitting chores, as she would have tried to help. That would have been a nightmare, knowing her propensity for retrieving chooks. So, she was delegated to staying with Drum and keeping him company.
Constable Bill called me over to a tank raised up on stumps. “Here,” he said to me. “Duck your head under there, I’ll shine my torch, have a look up in the tank.”
I asked no questions and diligently squatted down and crawled a little way under the tank. There above me, in the bowels of the tank, clinging to their roosts, were a dozen headless chooks — headless because they’d tucked that part of their anatomy under their wings and were sleeping peacefully. “Oh, no,” I groaned, as I scrambled to get out of the tank, and in doing so banged my head on the edge. “Shoot!” I screamed, rubbing my poor head. I could hear those darn chooks laughing at my pain and discomfort.
“Chicken duffers! Ha ha ha!” laughed Constable Bill. By this time, all had gathered and were sharing in the joke, which obviously was on yours truly. I slunk off into the night, climbed aboard Drum, and slowly made my way home, leaving the others behind, a dark cloak of embarrassment heavy on my shoulders.
“Chooks,” I said to Drum and Gretal. “The only good chook is a roast chook with a can of beer stuck up its bum, what do you think?” Drum plodded on, no comment. No comment from Gretal, either, but I certainly was looking forward to that beer, if for nothing else than to drown the embarrassment of the evening. Well, maybe two or three beers. I think that those beady-eyed monsters of chooks got the better of me that day.
Tags: dog story, Gretal, pet dog, story, Weimaraner
