She earned her name. Gabby just couldn't keep her mouth shut. Things had to be done her way--always. And her associates hated her for it. Whenever there was a skirmish you could be sure Gabby was either the cause of it, or in the middle of it.
One day her fellow workers decided that they'd had enough. It was time to put Gabby in her place. While she was busy doing her morning chore, a few of them got their heads together and worked out a plan.
That's when I came onto the scene. Hearing a terrible ruckus, I ran to investigate. Usually when I entered the room Gabby was the first to greet me, almost throwing herself at my feet, telling me how to do my job, and telling me how incompetent her work-mates were. But this morning Gabby didn't greet me. Instead, I was met by a flurry of confusion as fifty-odd troublemakers scurried out of my way. I looked around, wondering what the commotion had been about. It was then I saw Gabby, trembling and bleeding in the corner. She wasn't at all her arrogant self. She was humiliation, timidity, and misery all wrapped up in one five-pound package. I walked over to her and picked her up. Right away she began telling me her sad story. I couldn't help feeling sorry for her as she laid her head on my shoulder, spilling her tale of woe into my sympathetic ear.
I carried her into the house, assuring her all the way that I understood. After dressing her wound--or trying to--I lined a Carnation, canned milk box with a towel and nestled it into a corner in the kitchen. "That's okay, Gabby," I said to her in my most soothing voice as I placed her in the box. "You can stay in the house until you're all better." I brought her a dish of water and some breadcrumbs. Making a few cooing sounds, she settled down, shutting her eyes and feigning sleep. When she thought I wasn't looking, she reached around with her beak and tore off the bandage I had so carefully tied onto her rear end. "So much for that!" I said, shrugging my shoulders and going back to my work.
At dawn the next morning we were awakened by her distinctive "gabbing." I went to the kitchen to check on her. There she was strutting around the room, acting as if she owned it, and as if there had never been anything wrong with her. The raw sore on her rear had dried a little, but she did look funny with no feathers on her backside. It was all I could do to keep from laughing. And from then on she became my shadow, following at my heels, telling me how to do my work. Even after she was banished from the house, being allowed to roam the yard at will, she would manage to sneak back in on the heels of the dogs, the cats, or the youngsters. As far as she was concerned the house was as much hers, as it was ours. But at night she opted to sleep on the doorstep, snuggled up to our malamute dog, Skipper.
Gabby was a diligent worker, not allowing her handicap to hamper her. And she was an early riser--at dawn. With her mezzo-soprano voice she would begin her a cappella cantata, crescendoing to double forte when she had succeeded in dropping her daily egg on our doorstep.
When dusk arrived--and most chickens had taken to their roosts--Gabby would get into her party mood. She seemed to know that picnic time was approaching. During the summer months, since we were clearing land, we would have a wiener and marshmallow roast late in the evening. All nine children looked forward to this end-of-the-day event. And so did Gabby. As soon as the fire had burned down to embers every member of the family would begin the process of mounting a wiener on a stick and vying for the hottest spot in the fire pit. Mouths were watering and tummies were growling. Gabby stood poised by the smallest youngster, four-year-old Dougie. He eyed her. She eyed him, waiting. She waited until Dougie had his toasted wiener nestled in a bun, and was bringing it up to his mouth; then she took her lunge. She was always successful. Ever since the first time it had happened, and Dougie's howls filled the night air because of his lost hot dog, we were all prepared for the inevitable. And even little Dougie had begun to enjoy Gabby thieving-game.
It was when the last tinge of color had faded from the sky, the last toasted wiener and marshmallow had been devoured, the last ember in the fire pit had died, and the last small child was inside the house, that Gabby's day was over. Cooing contentedly she would settle down on the doorstep, waiting for Skipper to join her for a short summer night’s sleep.
Oh yes, Gabby was one of those unforgettables, all right. And could we glean a lesson from this? "Sometimes your mouth can get you into a heap of trouble."
© Helen Dowd
A true story