Once upon a time, there was a farmer in the English countryside. A simple man, not wealthy—just an old cottage, a patch of land, and a modest collection of animals. Two cows, three goats, three ducks, and a dozen hens that kept him in eggs. He grew turnips, potatoes, and whatever else would keep him fed. His old tractor sat in the shed alongside rusted ploughs and tools.
His animals adored him, and for good reason—he treated them like family. He spoke to them, shared his last crust of bread, and nursed them when they fell ill, cradling them like children. Other farmers in the county laughed at him. “Sell ’em for meat,” they said. “You’d get good money, buy new equipment. Maybe even catch a woman’s eye—who’d want a penniless bloke like you otherwise?”
But he just smiled. “Can’t do it. They’re family to me.”
At the local pub, where farmers gathered on weekends for a pint and a game of darts, his words were met with chuckles. A small band played old folk tunes, and the whole place would erupt into dancing—boots stomping, skirts swirling. The farmer never joined in. His boots were cracked and worn, nothing like the proper leather ones the others wore.
One barmaid, though—Emily—kept glancing his way. There was something about him, those kind eyes, that quiet smile. She tried more than once to pull him onto the floor, but he’d blush furiously, tuck his scuffed shoes under the bench, and mutter, “Sorry, miss. Had a bit too much—head’s spinning.”
“Liar,” she huffed to herself. “You’ve barely touched your ale.”
One of the farmers finally explained. “He’s got a house full of animals he can barely feed. We’ve told him—sell ’em, make life easier. But the daft sod calls them family.”
Emily’s expression softened. She started slipping him free pasties when he came in. He’d turn red, stammer, refuse. Was it love? Or just pity? Hard to say. The man thought himself a burden—too poor, too stretched thin to deserve happiness.
Then came planting season. His animals trailed after the tractor like a ragged parade, their way of cheering him on. Even his dog, Biscuit, got smuggled into the pub now and then, sneaked scraps under the table. Emily watched, torn between walking away and throwing her arms around him right then and there.
One evening, as the farmer rested on the bench outside, his animals milling about, his heart gave a terrible lurch. He clutched his chest and collapsed. The creatures erupted into chaos—bleats, barks, squawks—until Biscuit barked, “Quiet! His heart’s fading! We need help—now!”
She bolted for the pub. Inside, the band played loud, boots pounded the floor. No one heard her barks—until the doors exploded inward. Two cows barreled through, followed by goats, ducks, hens, and cats. The room froze.
Biscuit yapped, “I *told* you not to leave him!”
The farmers didn’t need explaining. They loaded the animals into trucks and raced to the cottage. The farmer was alive, barely. They rushed him to hospital.
Emily quit her job that night. She moved into the cottage, tending the animals, the fields—everything. She visited him daily. He’d flush, stammer, promise to repay her. “Just—don’t abandon my little ones,” he pleaded.
A month later, he came home to a transformed farm. Emily had sold her flat, used the money to renovate the cottage, buy new equipment. He gaped. “I—I can’t afford this.”
The animals swarmed him, nudging, nuzzling. Emily stepped forward. “Can I…?”
He hugged her tight.
They married. Life eased with two sets of hands. They built a vast piggery—a hundred hogs, Emily’s project. She banned him from it. “Off with you,” she’d say. “I know you—you’ll name them, spoil them, let them loose. I’ve a bank loan to pay by autumn.”
He’d sigh, wander to the bench, where his cows rested their heads on his shoulders, the hens clucked at his feet, and Biscuit leaned against his leg. He’d tell them stories until Emily returned, watching from the doorway, unwilling to break the spell.
She prayed every night—just let this last.
And the lesson? Well. It’s always the same, isn’t it?
Love, in the end, is what matters.
