**Diary Entry: A Farmer’s Tale**
I knew a farmer once—just an ordinary bloke, not wealthy by any means. His house was old, his land modest, and his livestock plentiful: two cows, three goats, three ducks, a dozen hens for eggs, and a patch of earth where he grew corn, potatoes, and whatever else would keep food on the table. Oh, and let’s not forget the trappings—his dog, Betsy, and two cats.
Everything under his care had an appetite, himself included. A rickety tractor sat in the shed, surrounded by rusted tools for sowing and harvesting. But his animals adored him, and why wouldn’t they? He treated them like family—spoke to them, shared his last bite, even brought them inside when they fell ill, nursing them like children.
The other farmers in the county laughed at him. *Ship them to the butcher,* they’d say. *Earn some proper money, buy decent machinery. Maybe then some woman would look your way—who’d want a penniless sod like you?*
But he just smiled. *Can’t do it. They’re my kin.*
At the pub where the farmers gathered on weekends for whisky and darts, they took his words as a joke. The locals drank, played pool, danced to the folk band’s lively tunes—proper country music, the old-fashioned sort. The farmer never joined in. His boots were too worn, his pride too fragile.
A waitress, though—she’d noticed him. A gentle man with kind eyes. She tried more than once to pull him onto the dance floor. He’d blush, tuck his scuffed boots under the table, and mutter, *A bit too much to drink tonight, miss. Head’s spinning.*
*Liar,* she’d huff. *He’s only had the one!*
Another farmer finally clued her in. *Keeps all those beasts fed on scraps. We’ve told him—sell ’em, get some proper coin. But the fool says they’re family.*
A drunken farmer tried to grab her then. Big mistake—country lasses don’t stand for that. One swift right hook sent him sprawling, earning cheers from the crowd.
After that, the waitress watched the farmer differently. Sneaked him free pies, which he refused, flustered. Hard to say what it was—unrequited love, or something deeper. Maybe he just thought himself a burden, too poor for anyone’s affection.
Then came planting season. The animals trailed after his tractor like a loyal crew. Betsy even got secret pub trips—he’d hide her under the table, slipping her stolen scraps while he went hungry. The waitress saw it all, torn between frustration and tears.
*Feed the dog but won’t kiss me?* she’d think, her eyes misting.
One evening, tragedy nearly struck. The farmer collapsed in the yard, clutching his chest. The animals erupted—bleating, squawking, barking chaos—until Betsy silenced them. *His heart’s fading. I’ll fetch help.*
She bolted to the pub. Inside, the band played loud, boots stomped, no one heard her barks—until the doors blasted open. Two cows barreled in, followed by goats, ducks, hens, the lot. The crowd froze.
*I told you not to leave him!* Betsy snapped.
The farmers rushed to their trucks, ferried the animals back, and found the farmer barely conscious. The hospital saved him.
The waitress? She quit her job, moved into his home, sold her own cottage to pay for repairs—new roof, fresh equipment. When he returned, stunned, she stood there, hands on hips.
*I can’t repay this,* he stammered.
*Didn’t ask you to,* she said.
The animals swarmed him, nuzzling close. The wife (yes, she married him) now runs a thriving pig farm—strictly business. *Out of my pens,* she scolds. *You’ll name them all and ruin the profits.*
So he retreats to the bench, surrounded by his true family—cows resting heads on his shoulders, Betsy at his feet. He tells them stories, his voice soft. His wife watches from the doorway, smiling.
She prays only one thing: that this never ends.
What’s the moral? Ah, yes. The same as ever.
Love.
