The Possum

I would like to thank Eloise, Wordsfortheweary editor, for her guest blog post last week about a Ugandan chicken. Her story was in large part the inspiration for this one, which took place in Canada. Different continents, same absurdity.

It was past midnight, and there was trouble at the henhouse.

The shrieking chickens woke the farmer from a deep winter’s sleep. He threw back the covers. It was bitterly cold, and he usually slept in the nude. He fumbled in the dark for his shotgun. He stepped through the door to the bedroom balcony to get a better view.

But in his bleary state he had neglected one crucial detail: there was no bedroom balcony. It had not yet been built. So instead, he stepped through the door into thin air and plunged two stories into a deep snowdrift. He still clutched the shotgun. He was still nude.

Now very much awake and with a chapped butt, he struggled out of the drift and through the snowy field towards the chaos in the henhouse. He flung open the door. There sat a large possum, contentedly making a meal of one of the hens. The possum was dispatched. With order restored, the farmer walked back through the snowy darkness to the farmhouse.

Which was of course locked. The only thing open was the door up where a bedroom balcony was supposed to be. He stood in the snow calling up to his wife. Nothing. He yelled. Nothing. He went round and knocked on the front door. Still nothing. Then he pounded on the door with all his might.

Finally the farmer’s wife rose from a deep winter’s sleep. She threw back the covers. It was bitterly cold, but she slept in a sensible flannel nightgown. Thankfully, she did not venture through the void to the unbuilt balcony. Instead she trudged downstairs and wearily opened the front door for her shivering husband. He was nude, he was holding a shotgun, and he had some explaining to do.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]