Letter to Santa a bid for biddies

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T. Gamble

T. Gamble

The letter was sweet and to the point, as are most letters written to Santa Claus.

The 9-year-old princess girl told Santa she loved him, hoped he was safe, and that Rudolph was doing well. She wanted furniture for her American Girl Doll, clothes, too, and various other Christmas gifts.

It closed by saying,

“... and most of all I want

a chicken coop.”

Just my luck. Forty million little girls in America and I have the only one that wants a chicken coop for Christmas, and we all know that Santa Claus tries to bring that which is requested.

Of course, the little 8-year-old Hurricane boy requested a Segway from Santa, and that did not happen. Somehow or the other, he got the impression that federal regulations, Nancy Pelosi and the ACLU would not allow an 8-year-old to have an upright motorized scooter.

I have no idea where such a notion might have come from.

My children’s gift requests do not bode well for the future. Practical, useful, economical, are all words foreign to them. I dread the next holiday that requires gifts, which under today’s standards includes everything but Arbor Day. We give gifts for birthdays, Christmas, Easter, St. Patrick’s Day, Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Halloween and Thanksgiving.

I shudder to think what will be requested when they are 16. But for now, we have the issue of the chicken coop.

Santa was kind enough to hire some very nice folks to build a chicken coop. It is very nice, and I am sure any chicken alive would be honored to live in the regal surroundings of the fortified coop located at Fairy Tail Farms, the name of the barn and pasture where we put the coop.

It is fortified because we have several barn cats who are very excited the little girl ordered biddies, known as snacks in their vernacular. So soon we will have the cats, a horse, a pony, a boy donkey named Bambi and all these chickens. We also have goldfish in the water trough and dogs and cats at the house. I can spend every waking hour feeding animals that couldn’t care less if I were dead or alive.

Anyway, we now need to buy the chickens. I visited a local feed store to discuss purchasing a few chickens. A good friend of mine and former classmate works there.

Last year, we visited the store around Easter when the store was full of baby chicks. The Princess and Hurricane were both mesmerized by all the little bitty chicks. They held them and named them and begged to take them home.

Soon, only the Hurricane was left alone with the chicks. He soon noticed a dead chick and stared at the poor dead chicken intently. About this time, my good buddy came around the corner and looked at the Hurricane stooped over looking very closely at the dead chick.

The Hurricane looked up at my buddy and said, “Mister, I didn’t

kill that chicken.” If only he had a Segway he could have made his escape. Poor Hurricane ... forced to defend himself even before he is accused.

I guess in a few weeks, when things warm up, we’ll buy the chicks. But if they end up missing, mister, I didn’t kill those chickens.

Contact columnist T. Gamble at t@colliergamble.com.