Page 32 of For My Finale
She followed him to a small outhouse, where he pointed to a large sack.
“That there’s chicken feed,” he said. He pointed toward an enclosure. “Them there’s chickens. Take the feed and feed ‘em.”
She eyed the sack, then the coop. It seemed easy enough. “Of course,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Leave it to me.”
Perhaps she should have been slightly more skeptical.
She lifted the sack and carried it into the coop. But the moment she opened it, the wind picked up, blowing fine, powdery feed directly into her face. Coughing and spluttering, she tried to shake it off, but the sudden movement and availability of food excited the chickens, which promptly flew at her in a flurry of feathers and squawks.
“I’m under attack!” Lilah shrieked.
George, who was waiting outside the coop with his arms folded, shook his head as he watched her flail wildly in an attempt to escape the angry poultry. The sack overturned,spilling feed everywhere. Chickens swarmed to the mess, pecking frantically. Lilah, relieved to be left alone, turned and tripped over one, which squawked, resulting in her falling flat on her back for the second time in less than ten minutes.
“I hate it here,” she said again.
“Maybe we just haven’t found the right chore for you yet,” George said doubtfully. Then his face brightened. “There’s always sheep, though.”
Lilah sighed, got to her feet, and followed George over to a nearby field.
“Now, this is simple,” he said, looking proud of himself for thinking of it. “All you’ve got to do is walk behind ‘em, all gently like, and guide ‘em into the pen. Nothing to it.”
Predictably, there turned out to be rather a great deal more to it.
Lilah attempted what she imagined to be a firm and authoritative farmer stance, waving her arms in a haphazard manner, as she thought a shepherd would probably do. The sheep seemed… unimpressed.
Rather than heading toward the pen, they scattered in every direction.
“Go that way!” she shouted. But they ignored her, settling down to munch on some grass.
“You’ve got to be gentle,” George said, leaning on a stone wall and watching.
Lilah took a deep breath and tried again, stepping forward carefully. One sheep eyed her warily, then bolted, leading the others in a full-scale escape attempt.
“Oh, come on,” Lilah cried, chasing after them before slipping over on the damp grass and falling on her back again.
This time, George actually laughed.
She was slower to her feet this time. And when George led her back to the hen-house and instructed her to look for eggs, she flat-out refused.
“I’m not setting foot in there with those psychopaths again,” she said.
George looked thoughtful. “You could learn some milking, I suppose. I mostly use machines these days, but hand-milking is a skill.”
“Cow milking?” Lilah asked carefully. “And that involves… what exactly?”
George told her.
“Absolutely not,” she said firmly.
He nodded. “Shall we say that you’re not cut out for farm life, then?” he said.
“I think that’s something that we can both agree on,” Lilah said.
He pointed toward the farmhouse. “The door’s unlocked. You might want to go and have a wash up before you go.”
Gratefully, she walked back toward the house.
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