The Texas sun beat down on Pecan Creek Ranch, a place where the tumbleweeds had more personality than some of the two-legged inhabitants. Here, life was a slow, dusty waltz until Bartholomew “Barty” Bumble, a pig with delusions of grandeur and a snout for mischief, decided it was time for a little… entertainment. Barty wasn’t just any pig; he was a co
oisseur of chaos, a maestro of mayhem, and currently, the architect of the Great Corn Heist of ’23.
His accomplice, a perpetually bewildered rooster named Reginald, whose crow was more of a strangled yelp, was currently perched precariously on the barn roof, a miniature, ill-fitting cowboy hat askew on his comb. Reginald’s primary role, as explained by Barty in a series of grunts and enthusiastic nudges, was to be the “early warning system.” In reality, he was mostly there to provide a visual gag, which Barty found endlessly amusing.
The target: Farmer Jedediah’s prize-wi
ing, extra-sweet corn, meticulously grown for the a
ual Pecan Creek County Fair. Barty believed that such culinary perfection deserved a more… appreciative audience than Farmer Jedediah and his perpetually worried wife, Martha. He envisioned a clandestine midnight feast, a gourmet pig-out under the starlit Texas sky.
“Now, Reggie, my feathered friend,” Barty grunted, his jowls quivering with anticipation, “remember the plan. When you hear the tell-tale creak of the porch swing, that means Jedediah’s settling in for his nightly… contemplation. That’s your cue. A sharp, decisive squawk. Understand?”
Reginald tilted his head, his beady eyes darting between Barty and the vast expanse of cornfield. He managed a sort of clucking sound that Barty interpreted as a resounding “Aye aye, Captain!”
The night descended, thick and velvety, punctuated by the chirping of crickets. Barty, with surprising agility for his ample frame, began to dig a tu
el under the chicken coop, his powerful snout a surprisingly effective excavation tool. Dust billowed, coating him in a fine, gritty layer that only added to his roguish charm. He felt the thrill of illicit enterprise coursing through his veins. This was far more exhilarating than rooting for truffles.
Suddenly, a frantic flapping erupted from above. Reginald, mistaking a particularly large moth for a shadowy saboteur, let out a ear-splitting, sustained shriek. The entire barnyard jolted awake. Chickens squawked in alarm, the sheep bleated in confusion, and Daisy, the prize-wi
ing Holstein cow, mooed a long, mournful note that echoed across the prairie.
Farmer Jedediah, his suspenders already strained, stumbled out onto the porch, his shotgun held at the ready. “What in tarnation is goin’ on?” he bellowed, his voice rough with sleep.
Barty froze, his tu
el half-finished, the scent of sweet corn tantalizingly close. He saw Martha emerge, a rolling pin in hand, her usually placid face a mask of righteous indignation.
Reginald, sensing he’d overdone it, attempted a hasty retreat, tripped over his own feet, and tumbled from the roof in a flurry of feathers and indignant squawks, landing with a soft thud directly in front of Farmer Jedediah.
Jedediah lowered his shotgun, a bewildered expression replacing his alarm. He looked from the stu
ed rooster, to the dusty, guilty-looking pig emerging from a hole, to the impossibly pristine cornfield, and finally, to his wife.
Martha, however, had already put two and two together. She pointed the rolling pin directly at Barty. “Jedediah! That pig! He’s been eyeing our corn for weeks! He’s the mastermind!”
Barty, caught red-snouted, knew he was defeated. He offered a pathetic, defeated squeal, his dreams of a midnight corn feast dissolving like dew in the morning sun.
The next morning, a chastened Barty, with a stern lecture from Martha and a de-hatting of Reginald, was put to work helping with chores. His job? Guarding the corn. He spent the day under the relentless Texas sun, a single kernel of corn tied around his neck as a constant reminder of his failed ambition. Reginald, meanwhile, was relegated to crowing only at sunrise and sunset, his entrepreneurial spirit thoroughly dampened. Yet, as Barty watched the sun dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the cornfield, a mischievous glint returned to his eye. After all, there was always tomorrow, and a pig’s memory, much like a Texan’s stubbor
ess, was a long and resilient thing. And perhaps, just perhaps, Reginald might be accidentally involved in another grand scheme before long.
