But Imagine the Drumstick!

When I went outside, my heart sank. The pen that I just knew I'd closed was standing opens, all the occupants gone. There wasn't even a feather left behind, just some scratched up earth. The day was dreary, the light grey and wan, and I was pissed.

How freakin' difficult is it, really, to close a dang gate? Someone else must have been in there and forgotten, or been careless. You have to close it just so or it won't latch.

I stomped down the steps, muttering to myself - I put a lot of time, money, and effort into those birds and I just had to get them back.

I called out to them, a warbling coo ending with "...chook, chook, chook, chook, chook..." that usually made them come running - it was the call I made when I brought them treats. Not a peep, not a feather, nothing. The world around me was hushed, almost muffled, not a breath of wind blowing.

I called again, still no response.

I came around a grove of trees and saw one hunkered down on the ground. She stood as I approached, towering above me. She seemed happy enough to see me, and she began her hopping run to get to me. She tripped on a hummock and went down on her knee, squawking.

I got her back into the pen and wondered where the rest of them had got to, if they'd been loosed on purpose, or even stolen. I wondered if I would ever get them back, my experimental, fifty-foot-tall, one-legged, buffle-headed ostriches.
~~~~~
If you think reading about them is peculiar, try seeing 'em in your dreams.