Farmer Brown’s Secret
The big man with the fluffy white hair shook his head, mane bouncing. “I don’t know how you do it, Farmer Brown.”
Farmer Brett Brown shrugged, and smiled at Bessie. “I don’t either, Mr. Vice President. But our lady cows have the latest in technology.”
Mr. Vice President, who Bessie knew was called Dick Cheney, laughed. “Technology can solve many problems! What are you using?”
“Moocrosoft Barn Door, sir. Hot off the press. It’s a lot better than Moocrosoft Pasture. Pasture was too slow and prone to weeds.”
One of the men in black suits stepped up to Mr. Vice President and whispered something. “Yes, Charlie. Thank you,” Mr. Vice President said. He turned to Farmer Brown. “What about the Democratic National Committee? They’re not going to sit still while we create a grass-roots campaign you know.”
Farmer Brown smirked. “We’ve got that under control, sir. Let me introduce you to the Republicans’ latest ally.” He turned and led the way out of the barn.
Bessie stepped through her gate to the outside paddock and walked along beside the two men, the knot of men in black suits hanging back a bit. They walked down the dirt road and stopped at a small wooden building with wire mesh over its windows.
“This is the latest. My son Bobby thought it up, sir. It’s called Project Foxtrot.”
Mr. Vice President bent and squinted through the window. All of a sudden he shouted and jumped back. The men in black suits came running up, guns drawn, and Mr. Vice President waved them off. “It’s all right, boys. It’s all right. False alarm!”
They stumbled to a stop, appearing to Bessie to be faintly disappointed. Farmer Brown bent and coo’d at the occupant of the enclosure. He looked up at Mr. Vice President. “Her name is Hillary. Isn’t she great, sir?”
“She’s … um,” Mr. Vice President hedged.
Farmer Brown straightened, eyes understanding. “You don’t see it yet, sir. She’s a fox. The best one in the county. Steals more chickens than any four foxes you ever saw.”
Mr. Vice President’s eyebrows came up, impressed. “You don’t say!”
“She’s perfect. Mr. Dean has filled the Democratic National Committee with what he thinks is the latest competition to our girls.” Farmer Brown grinned and winked at Bessie. She winked back. He stared a little and then turned back to Mr. Vice President. “You see, sir, they got a shipment from Germany, sir. But their girls aren’t nearly as good as mine, see. Apples to oranges, you ask me.”
“Farmer Brown, I don’t follow you,” Mr. Vice President admitted.
“Chickens, Mr. Vice President. They’ve hired German chickens to handle their national policy!” He chortled gleefully. “We’ll have ‘em snowed under in no time! My girls are faster any day, and twice on Sunday!”
“Faster?” Mr. Vice President wondered.
Farmer Brown beamed at him. “Yes, sir! They only use the hunt and peck method, see.”
Mr. Vice President’s eyes widened, and he glanced down at Hillary. “You don’t say,” he murmured.
“So,” Farmer Brown started. “What do you say to some of Mrs. Brown’s famous cherry pie?”
Bessie watched the two men, followed by the hoard of men in black suits, wander slowly back up to the farmhouse.
“Okay, girls,” she said. “Let’s get back to work!”