An Open Letter To Bobbie Oar

October 26, 2010

Dearest Bobbie,

Bobbie, dear sweet Bobbie. Please, will you ever forgive me? I have misjudged you terribly and for this, I am deeply sorry. I was Paul was wrong. You and your feathered kin are not a bunch of low-down, good-fer-nuthin' birds despite what he said. Okay, okay. I said it too. You have to understand, though, dear sweet Bobbie; there had been no white eggs for a couple days and I thought you were sandbagging. Again. The contract that we negotiated mere days ago stated that you and the Poultry Association would continue to provide those beautiful protein-rich eggs that we have come to love. We've missed them, Bobbie, and I couldn't bare the notion of going without, anymore. I thought, "I'm gonna fix your little red wagon...or whatever you poultry-types use for transportation." Maybe I shouldn't have done it, Bobbie. I shouldn't have posted 'the sign' above your roost. I know that now.

It was kind of funny. No, of course, you're right. It wasn't. Wasn't funny at all. I'm not smiling. But, you'd reneged on our deal, Bobbie. You and the PA. Reneged. It wasn't right, Bobbie. Not right at all. I returned to the house, empty-handed and forlorn. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted it. The stash.

Twenty three eggs of varying degrees of freshness, tucked away in a corner of the porch in a long-forgotten planter. What the hell were you thinking, Bobbie? You and the PA. It took me awhile to process the scene. They were...eggs. In a pot. Twenty three of them. I smiled. You had kept up your end of the bargain, after all. Dear, sweet Bobbie. 'The sign' will come down in the morning.

Sincerely,
Management