A Little Problem

In corner stall down yonder

There dwells a distant friend.

I know him just in passing

As he lives at the far end.

He’s got a little “problem.” 

And I don’t like to pry, but

Were I in his steel shoes

I know I’d want to cry.

It seems he is allergic

To any kind of treat.

His taste buds must be dreary

With nothing fun to eat.

He can’t have any carrots;

He can’t eat any hay;

Stud muffins are a no-no.

Why him? I often pray.

Somehow he is so stoic

About this nasty turn.

If I were him I’d have a fit,

My insides how they’d churn!

I’d offer him my sympathies

But he’s aloof as he can be.

I guess he’s found a way to cope

Which means there’s more for me!

* * *

It's true, believe it or not. There is a horse in the barn that's allergic to every treat I love!!! I don't know how he manages it. When the treat wrappers are rustling and people are hovered around the carrot bag I am almost crazy with anticipation. From where my stall is located I can see my entourage bustling in and out of the tack room fetching stud muffins, extruded apple chunks and best of all, on Muffin Mondays, Timmies cranberry blueberry bran muffins. And the carrot bag is barely 12 feet away from me!

No, if I were Jack Jack I'd have a BIG problem. In sympathy I always eat his share. I'm sure he appreciates it ...

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2010

Chicken Terror

Oh dear, they’re 

Back! How can it 

Be? They must be 

Here to torture 

Me! What did I do

To draw such 

Fate? Why aren’t 

Those chickens on a 

Plate instead of 

In the barn? 

Forsooth, with every 

Squawk I lose my 

Youth! Remove them 

Please, I cannot

Bear to think

That they are over 

There. Too close

For comfort, to be 

Sure, it’s terror 

I just won’t

Endure. I’m on alert,

My head is

High, my body

Quakes, what

If I die because

Some poultry

Got away? A

Lousy end to a

Lovely day.

So, I implore

Remove them

Hence before

I lose all

Common sense.

* * *

I do not tolerate chickens well. They are squawking, flapping, foul fowl with no consideration for others with whom they share the barn ... namely me. I like my peace and quiet. I like to stand over my hay and eat while contemplating my next poetic masterpiece without the constant cacophony of chicken gossip, like "My egg is bigger than your egg!" or "Oh my gosh, did you see the length of his feathers!!" 

Who cares? Go find a chicken coop somewhere!

Now normally I'm a pretty even-tempered fellow, but chickens just send me. I'm not proud of it, and I know my mother would rather I "get real," as she likes to put it.  But I, like everyone else, have my sensitive proclivities (Marvin doesn't like stud muffins; Jupiter doesn't like much, etc. ... names changed to protect the innocent ...), and chickens just happen to be something I don't like.

Fortunately it wasn't long before the human folk removed the evil squawkers to the other barn. Now I can stop looking over my shoulder and get back to the serious business of eating and quiet contemplation.

Chickens indeed!

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2010