LETTERS TO THE FARMER FROM THE ANIMALS

Hi, Mr. Farmer, it's me, Moo the cow. You know, the brown one with the white belly. I'm writing to complain about the food. I mean, it's hay. Have you ever eaten hay? Do you know what it tastes like? Well, I'll tell you, it tastes just like it looks ... like straw, which is what it is. I think the only reason you call it "hay" is because you don't want to admit you're feeding us straw. Do you know anybody that eats straw? ... No, I didn't think so. Now, obviously, you've seen us out in the field eating luscious, green grass, which is delicious but, when we get back to the barn, what do we find? ... Hay!  What's up with that? I'll tell you something; you're not making any friends here with this hay business. So, how about losing the hay thing and stocking up on some nice juicy green grass for the barn.

Thank you Your friend, Moo the cow

Hello, Mr. Farmer. This is Cluck the chicken. I'm writing to inform you of a situation that is causing much consternation here in the hen house. First, let me say that, as much time as you spend in the hen house, I'm surprised you aren't aware of what's happening. I know you are very proud of the farm and all the animals, and I'm truly sorry to have to tell you this, but there is no getting around it, there is a thief on the farm. It's like this: Every night we chickens lay several eggs in our nests. Each morning, at dawn, we go out to peck around and do some wing flapping. When we return to the hen house, the eggs are missing. I'll be honest, I don't even know what eggs are for or why we lay them and, frankly, laying eggs is not on my "top 10 fun things to do" list but you'd expect, after all that effort, we'd have something to show for it. Please understand, I'm not accusing anyone but Mrs. Farmer has been seen sneaking around the hen house, carrying a basket, when no chickens were present. I'm sure she has a logical explanation for this behavior but we would appreciate you looking in to the matter.

Sincerely Cluck the chicken

Hi, Mr. Farmer. Snout the pig, here. Hope you don't mind but I wanna run something by you. You know me, I'm not a complainer but here's the deal. Ya gotta admit, as pigs go, I'm a pretty fine looking specimen. I mean, when the lady pigs talk about me, it's not unusual to hear the word "hunk" tossed around. Thing is, have you seen my pen lately? ... Looks like a pigsty. No kidding. I mean it's filthy, muck all over the floor, which I'd rather not describe further, and my food bowl .... jeez, who would eat out of that nasty thing? I don't know whether you know it or not, but we pigs are normally the cleanest animal around. And another thing, whoever came up with the expression, "slop the hogs" ... not funny! Seriously, could you live like this? Honestly, I don't mean to be fussy but I couldn't help overhearing you and Mrs. Farmer, who I understand has a little "clepto" problem, talking the other day, something about a guestroom in the farmhouse. Anyway, if you get time, maybe you could drop by for a little chat.

Yours truly Snout the pig

Hi, Farm Daddy. It's me, Fluff the cat. Just wondering, did you notice anything unusual last night? A sound, something like, "bark" - "bark" - "bark," over and over... All! ... Night! ... Long! Maybe you can't hear it from the house, but from the barn, where I sleep, or try to sleep, that blasted, mangy, no good hound dog is a nuisance that should be disposed of immediately. Barking, slobbering, running around, silly tail wagging, and I won't even mention the fleas. Why would anyone, in their right mind, want a ridiculous dog when they have a magnificent cat like myself? What's it good for? How many rats did dummy catch last night between barks? I think you should put some serious thought into the value of keeping that worthless mutt around.

Respectfully Fluff the cat

Sir. Just a little note from your (I thought) best friend, Ralph, the dog. I don't know who's been carrying tales around here but I think you owe me an apology for that little outburst this morning. I'm not the only dog in these parts, the neighbors have dogs too and they bark same as me. And, as for last night, I wasn't even close to the barn ... you know that little white poodle that lives in that big house about a mile up the road .... well, need I say more? So, from now on, before you listen to one unnamed, scrawny, lazy feline, I would appreciate it if you would listen to my side of the story before you go off the deep end. Remember who tends and protects the sheep all day when you're not around.

Ever faithful Ralph the dog

Mr. Farmer! I suggest you just march yourself right down here and look at me right now. This is Woolly, the sheep and I have never been so embarrassed in my life. I demand to know what's going on here. Yesterday I was covered with beautiful wool and today ... well; you just come and see for yourself. I'm bald! Yes, bald, bald bald! How do you like that! Do you have any idea how I feel? ... Bald as a frog. Some idiots waltzed in here this morning and whacked off all my beautiful wool. Not just me, all of us. We're all bald! Has the whole world gone crazy? We're freezing to death here! You'd better bring us some nice coats, wool would be nice, or I'm gonna call some animal rights people and have a nice little talk with them. ...And, oh yeah, where was that stupid dog during all this?

Your mortified, sheep Woolly (from now on just call me baldy)

Urgent! Please read immediately. Mr. Farmer, this is Gobbler, the turkey. Thanksgiving is rapidly approaching and, on behalf of all us turkeys, I urge you to reconsider this years fare. We are aware of the tradition - first settlers, Indians, giving thanks and all that, but we think that the people responsible for introducing this horrendous holiday dinner should step up and face the music here. In other words, this year, instead of an innocent turkey, how about serving a nice, fat, succulent, roast Indian - it was their idea… let them take the heat. I'm sure you'll find some great recipes on the Internet. P.S. - Also, could you move the cranberry patch a little further away from our pen? Just the sight of them makes us nauseous.

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