Chickens and other relatives

Chicken Man asked me the other day, why, with my evident disregard for the human species, I’d accepted a posting to Earth. Hmmm….

The answer in a nutshell is: relatives.

I don’t know how you feel about yours but as far as I’m concerned my relatives are best avoided. The trouble of course stems from Granny Were – have one lunatic in a family and you can rest assured she’ll produce more. And that’s just what Granny did. It can therefore safely be said that the maternal side of the family is raving, squawking and completely doolally. Not only that but if style came up and bit them on the bum, they wouldn’t know what it was. Likewise etiquette, intellect, good grace, oh and all those things you associate with nice chickens.

I’ve spent years avoiding family. And then I went and put my claw in it. I tried to do a business deal with a cousin. Sigh… Yes, I know, I should have known better. I should have remembered the cousin was a toad of note. And I should have taken into account that the toad’s mother was the doolalliest of all relatives. Her name, for good reason, is Aunt Fouwl.

Of course the toady cousin had a good go at shafting yours truly and yours truly, as you would expect, took issue. It came down to customer service – and you all know how I feel about that. Needless to say when I set to putting the little baggage straight, she ran clucking to her mama.

It must have been about ten at night, when all good chickens should have their heads tucked under their wings, when the telepathic call blasted into my consciousness.

At first it was impossible to tell who was on the other end and what they were saying. Mostly it was a riot of bellowing, cackling and bawling.

Then I made out the following.

"You’re a nasty little liar and a cheat. My family doesn’t know you and has never been associated with you.”

I wish.

“You have a major problem and should see a psychiatrist.”

Hello Kettle, this is Pot.

“And I want you to know this, I’m going to be waiting for you near the Hen Hall. And you know what, I’m going to pluck and skin you alive.”

Ooh, ow, nasty.

“Excuse me, Aunt Fouwl, I think you’ve got the wrong end of the corncob here,” I tried to say.

“Don’t talk to me, you odious creature. You’re vile and despicable. I’m going to make sure you suffer and pay. I’m going to kill you.”

I scratched the back of my head thoughtfully and then inspected my talons.

“Aunt Fouwl,” I said, “with all due disrespect, sod off.”

Okay, so I didn’t say sod off but I’m a nice chicken so I can’t tell you what I really said.

Then I ended the call and blocked out further demented raging.

A nanosecond later, using a different wave of telepathy a second call came. This time Aunt Fouwl was in even finer fettle. She ranted and raved, she screeched and shrieked. There were more ba-kaaaks in one sentence that I’ve ever heard before.

Anyone would have thought I was the villain of the piece when actually I was out of pocket by about 20 000 corncobs.

I ended the call again and put up the telpath shielding to prevent any further calls coming through. I mean I so do not need that kind of cacophony going on in my head.

So when the communiqué from High Command arrived the next morning, I said, “Yes, I’ll take it. How soon can I leave?”

And here I am.

What I’m really hoping, of course, is that Granny Were’s arrival doesn’t encourage more of her brood to follow. Her offspring all follow in her clawtracks and let one of them think they’re missing out on something and the whole mob descend like vultures. If that happens, I’m outta here and am heading to one of those pretty spiral galaxies far away.