Darrel Poche & The Great Chicken Commotion
Darrel Poche didn’t set out to be the town’s chicken man. Life just roosted that way.
When his daddy passed, Darrel inherited the Poche farm—three scraggly acres on the edge of Belle Perdue, half of it choked by weeds, the other half haunted by squash vine borer memories. Folks still remember old Mr. Poche cursing those bugs like they were personal enemies. He’d lose whole harvests to them, then plant again out of sheer spite.
Darrel gave up the fight. Once the land was his, he plowed it under and let the chickens take over. “Birds don’t get squash borers,” he said. “Birds don’t mind weeds.”
Most days, you can find him out there at sunrise, boots damp with dew, chatting low to his hens like they’re co-workers on coffee break. And maybe they are. His hens roam free, clucking through the grass like little old ladies hunting yard sale treasures. Every single one’s got a name, though Darrel keeps the list in his head.
In town, he’s known for two things: his fresh eggs and his wandering birds. The first makes him popular at the Saturday market. The second... well, that’s more complicated.
One Tuesday evening, just as the sun was bowing out behind the feed store, LowJack—of LowJack’s Mechanics—called Darrel in a state. Not his usual grumble, but high-pitched, frantic.
“Darrel, you better get down here. Chickens. Seven of ‘em. They done took over my shop. Roostin’ in the box I built for Broom to nap in. One’s hanging out the front like she’s trying to moon me.”
Darrel arrived in his beat-up truck, calm as sunrise. LowJack was pacing the gravel lot, waving his arms like a man under siege.
“I think Broom lured a fox into town,” LowJack hissed. “They’re hiding from something. That box ain’t rated for this kinda poultry weight!”
Darrel squinted at the wobbly roosting box. Sure enough, seven hens were crammed in tight, one tail feather twitching in the breeze. He scratched his head, then pulled out a small whistle from his keychain.
“It’s for dogs,” LowJack barked.
“Not when I use it,” Darrel said, and gave it a short blow.
What happened next became the stuff of Belle Perdue legend. One by one, like clowns exiting a circus car, the hens popped out—ruffled but orderly. They formed a line, single file, and marched right past LowJack, past Broom (who had absolutely not lured a fox anywhere), and hopped up into the back of Darrel’s truck without a fuss.
LowJack stood there, slack-jawed. “You trained ‘em?”
Darrel shrugged. “We got an understanding.”
The next morning, a handwritten sign appeared at LowJack’s:
“Not a chicken daycare. Take your birds home.”
Darrel didn’t mind. The town’s quirks were half the charm, and his birds were part of that charm whether people liked it or not. His farm might not turn much profit, but Darrel figured he was rich enough—eggs in the basket, chickens in the yard, and quiet mornings with no squash in sight.
And somewhere downtown, Broom the dog watched the road, just in case company—or poultry—was coming.
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