A short story by Doug Harman
Sam stood at the bottom of the garden pacing this way and that, he was growing impatient; the Old Man loved an early start, but today he seemed to be taking an age to get ready for their little jaunt.
Sam turned back toward the farmhouse for what seemed like the twentieth time, morning dew sparkled on the lawn as if a diamond-encrusted spider's web had been thrown across the grass.
Sam could hear the Old Man chatting away indoors. Didn't he realise he was waiting? The chill morning air was replete with the smells of early summer. The scent from the moist grass and warming early honeysuckle flowers clinging to the farmhouse wall seemed to swell in the air as the sun rose higher over the garden trees. The warmth meant the air had started to stir, making the bejewelled lawn shimmer, grass blades gently trembling as the air moved.
Sam turned and before him stretched the yard with its well-kept apple orchard and beyond, an enclosure where the Old Man's chickens clucked fitfully as they pecked at the ground. Always bad-tempered things, the Old Man seemed to love them; collecting eggs early every morning for breakfast was like a religion.
The smells of a finished breakfast and sounds of the breakfast table being cleared drifted across the shimmering lawn on the warming breeze. Sam could see the kitchen window was thrown wide and inside, the Old Man drying up dishes, chatting with the misses and paying him no attention at all.
“That is why he was taking so long”, Sam thought.
"The washing up had to be done" the Old Man would always say.
A flurry of activity behind shifted Sam’s gaze. A commotion in the chicken run caught Sam's attention. The largest hen, a bad-tempered feathery bird that had ruled the roost for years, had moved up to the fence, forcing another younger bird out of a patch of bright, warm, sunlight. She sat satisfied, preening and warming herself in the sun.
The ousted younger hen scratched angrily for food, bustling, flapping and clucking as it went about its business, but always just out of reach of the old hen's beak.
Sam couldn't resist, with a burst of sudden movement he charged across the yard covering the 30 feet between himself and the old hen so swiftly she barely had a chance to react – or finish settling her ruffled feathers – as he careened up to the fence, shouting as loud as he could.
Startled, the old bird flew into the air, wings beating fruitlessly. The hen clucked her angry alarm at Sam, who was chortling to himself in glee. Sam swiftly headed back towards the lawn’s edge and the farmhouse, stopping only once to examine a freshly turned patch of earth below one of the apple trees. Moles!
The Old Man would not like that, he thought, and he pressed on, towards the open kitchen window.
Looking back over his shoulder, Sam watched as the old hen, preening again settling back in her 'hot' spot; he resisted the urge to charge over once more.
"Come on Old Man", Sam thought as he reached the edge of the still sparkling lawn nearest the kitchen window. He could not see anyone through the open window, so excitedly, he took that as a good sign the wash up was done and he’d soon be outside.
Sam wondered which way they'd go. Their early morning walks had been a tradition for years. Still, Sam guessed they'd head out through the back of the yard (he could annoy the old hen again if they did go that way). Then they would walk beside the burbling stream, and head towards the barley field at the top of Brimnal Hill.
"That's the best view" the Old Man reckoned. Besides, the last time they went out together, they'd done a different route along by the lake, and he'd got into trouble for annoying the ducks.
"Are you ready yet?" Sam called again pacing out excited circles on the glistening lawn.
From inside the farmhouse he heard the Old Man call back, his voice sounded distant and small from the kitchen window: "All right all right, I'm coming, keep your hair on Sam".
"Ha!" thought Sam, "he's on his way at last". And with that, Sam jogged along the neatly trimmed lawn edge heading toward the garage, where he spun about and jogged back, leg muscles warming in preparation for the walk ahead.
As Sam trotted, the Old Man emerged from the kitchen doorway, a stick in hand, flat cap placed at the usual jaunty angle on his head and walking boots tightly laced.
"At last, what's kept you?" cried Sam, "you're as henpecked as those chickens" he joked.
As the Old Man strode into the now brightly lit garden, Sam headed to his usual spot at the edge of the orchard, and he was making plenty of noise about it too, jumping about as he shouted.
"Okay Sam, I'm here, now calm down" soothed the Old Man. Drawing level with Sam, he bent, patted the Labrador's broad head and ruffled the deep dark fur on his back. Then he stood and threw the stick in the direction of the hedgerow, just beyond the orchard.
Sam leapt after it barking excitedly as he charged, heading low and fast across the orchard towards the hedge, they were on their way, and he'd get that stick on the way.
