The Adventures of Petey the Wunder Chicken
Foolin' With April
By C. Patrick Neagle
It had been a while since I had caught up with Petey the Wunder Chicken. I assumed he had been gallivanting about town, smoking cigars with the bigwigs and strutting down the street with a chick on each wing. But I hadn't anticipated Petey's humanitarian side.
Southern Missouri was recovering from a series of rough storms. We had suffered through blizzards, ice storms, 70 mph straight-line winds, a possible tornado or two, torrential rains, flooding, and an attack by Martians (or door-to-door magazine salespeople -- identification is pending). Not necessarily in that order. March and April can be rough down here.
Petey hadn't been socked away in his bomb shelter the entire time. No, he'd been right there in the thick of things, clearing storm debris, rescuing people trapped by flooding, taking food to those left homeless.
I'll admit, I was surprised. I had to find out more about this paean of civic duty.
"Petey, I thought you might be out organizing a fundraiser or something for the victims of the storms, but you're right there in the middle of things, getting dirty and even risking your own life."
"Cluck, cluck, cluck?" Translation: "Was that a question?"
"Well, yes. What drives you to do it?"
"Cluck." Translation: "Well, C. Patrick, I find that helping out my community gives me a sense of accomplishment that I just can't get from standing by watching it all play out on television or even by going to $100-a-plate aid dinners. No, I've got to get out there among the people, standing shoulder-to-wing joint, sweating, and making a difference. I guess that's what really 'drives' me -- making a difference."
"Wow, that's great, Petey. What's the hardest thing you've had to do out there?"
"Cluck, cluck, cluck -- cluck. Cluck. Ba-caaaawww!" Translation: "Nothing was really 'the hardest -- not really. What really got me were the long hours. I mean, some days we'd be out there for twenty-five, twenty-six hours a day, giving it a hundred and fifteen and a half percent. Maybe more. By the time I'd crawl back into my coop some nights I'd be so tarred you could have shaken a feather at me and I'd have fallen over. Hard? You bet!"
"So what are your plans now that things are nearly back to normal?"
"Ba-caaaw!" Translation: "Parties and barbecues, mate. Oh yeah!"