THE FARMYARD EXODUS.

THE FARMYARD EXODUS.

A Story by Peter Rogerson
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The farmyard animals are easily led by a minority, and decide to leave the farm.

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A SALUTARY LITTLE TALE OF FOLLOWING A FOOLISH LEADER AND PROBABLY FALLING TO YOUR DOOM BECAUSE OF IT

I,” announced Porky Pig as he took one despairing look round the farmyard and at all the interlopers who were free-loading off his mud-pool, “I am going to leave.”

Why?” asked Martha the senior hen in her coop as she pecked Mary’s wattle affectionately. “Why should a fat slob like you want to leave?” The rest of the hens, dozens of them, clucked in appreciation. Why should Porky even dream of leaving?

Porky snorted. “Immigrants,” he muttered, “there’s immigrants everywhere! Haven’t you seen all the turkeys? There are loads of turkeys getting fat and ugly, and they’re doing it on food that should be mine! Everyone knows that we pigs need plenty of snap. It’s vital for the development of our flanks and the quality of our bacon.”

A few turkeys never hurt anyone,” squeaked Mary, shaking Martha free of her juicy fleshy wattle. “I saw a fine fellow of a turkey only the other day and I swapped him one of my eggs for a sound piece of medical advice.”

What medical advice might that have been?” asked Martha, curious.

It was personal,” sniffed Mary. “But it worked and I’m in perfect fettle.”

That’s what I mean,” put in Porky. “All these foreign types coming along and interfering with our good old fashioned ways, when life was perfect and there was nobody out there in the big wide world to boss us about, when we had our lovely sovereignty. I’m off to pastures new and piles of lovely slurry oozing with fat juicy worms, and when I get there I’m going to keep all the goodness for myself! And if anyone wants to claim he’s a refugee fleeing from darkness and cruelty, well, sod him! He can suffer all the cruelty he’s got coming his way because I’ll be in my own heaven and I won’t share it with anyone!”

Not even a sexy young sow?” asked a new voice, and Theresa Pig with fetchingly painted nails on all four feet put her nose round the corner. “I can do things for you,” she added, “I can make you happier than any pig has the right to be! I can roll in the clover with you until you’re dizzier than a very dizzy human teenager at a rave, and you’ll wish it could go on for ever… and think how many truly fascinating bosoms I’ve got...”

Well,” said Porky, frowning because his brain had started to hurt as a consequence of having to think, “maybe if you play your cards right you could come with me. But be warned: I’m the boss and what I say goes. None of that foreign nonsense of rules and straight bananas for me.”

You can’t all go and leave us,” moaned Martha, “it wouldn’t be fair on the farmer who takes wonderful care of us and expects no more than a few eggs in return. And it’s not all that it’s cracked up to be out there. There are cliffs and schisms and all sorts of dangers to be avoided.”

I don’t lay eggs, thank goodness!” moaned Theresa Pig. “And I want you to know that I’m clear about that. Strong and stable and clear. You can’t be more noble than that! Lead on, Macduff, and I’ll follow you to the ends of the Earth and beyond! I’ll fall down precipices for you, and slide into purgatory if that’s what it takes to be free!”

I quite fancy you,” grinned Porky, “cor blimey I do. Let’s go, shall we, and leave the farmyard to look after itself?”

I’ll lead the way,” interrupted a new voice. It was the slimy goat with a foreign-sounding name from the far pasture who had overheard the conversation and would do anything to upset the status quo. He was famous for it. He even once formed a club called UKIP, (the Union of Kept Indecent Porkies) “Come on, chaps, and I warn you, you miserable pecky old hens, it’s all or none and because we’re more than you you’ve jolly well got to come along with us.”

That’s not democratic!” snapped Martha. “A hen’s worth twice as much as a goat because a hen lays the future in egg after egg and a goat does nothing but pretend to be great and head-butting anyone foolish enough to get close enough to be head-butted. And anyway, there are dozens of us, dozens and dozens and dozens.”

Democracy’s yesterday’s system,” grinned the goat, looking extra slimy as he spoke. “What happens now is what I say happens, and what I say is chick-chicks don’t count. Chick-chicks don’t know how to think. But chick-chicks must follow. I say so.”

Hurrah!” shouted Porky Pig.

I think I’ll take over,” said Theresa Pig, suddenly very pig-like and gurning as if she really believed that tomorrow might be utterly miserable. “You need someone with posh nails to lead you. Someone who’s always clear about everything, even when she isn’t. I’ll lead you all right. Come on, my beauties, and by tomorrow we’ll be in farmyard heaven!”

Hurrah!” shouted Porky Pig again.

There was no proper debate. The chickens were totally ignored because, well, they were poultry and didn’t count for much. And so the day dawned.

Theresa Pig was clear about quite a lot of things. She was clear about the way forward. She was clear about the when and the why and the wherefore, she was clear about just about everything. And she was particularly clear that everyone was in for the adventure, that it was a clear case of all for one and one for all.

Just down the lane from the farmyard was the stone quarry. It was disused these days, but deep and steep and dangerous. It was a truly unknown place.

And just down the lane from the farmyard a sorry trail of confused farm animals followed their leader as she stepped, blindly and with no thought of the consequences, into the dark depths of a pit that seemed to go down and down for ever.

Leaving at the bottom the instantly prepared meaty ingredients for a farmyard stew, which was almost instantly noted by a family of foxes and very soon gobbled up, leaving a pile of bleached bones to decorate the wonderful new land the deceased farm animals had found.

Which all goes to show that it’s not always best to follow cheats and liars when the world seems all right to you.

© Peter Rogerson 04.10.17



© 2017 Peter Rogerson



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I could kiss for writing this! I've been trying to think of some playful & animal-like way to tell this story & here you've gone & done it for me! *smile* This is the way to address the political stew we find ourselves in becuz there's no anger & blame . . . & hopefully people can laugh if they find themselves looking in a mirror when reading your story. It's kinda like terrorism . . . if we let it destroy our joy, then they've won! *wink! wink!* Brilliant little allegory! (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

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Added on October 4, 2017
Last Updated on October 4, 2017
Tags: farmyard, pigs, goat, chickens, turkeys, exodus

Author

Peter Rogerson
Peter Rogerson

Forest Town, Nottinghamshire, United Kingdom



About
I am 74 years old, but as a single dad with four children that I had sole responsibility for I found myself driving insanity away by writing. At first it was short stories (all lost now, unfortunately.. more..

Writing