sweety
12-01-2010, 08:37 AM
John Smith was a small farmer in Fireflies, County Cork, where he grew vegetables on eight acres of land. His fondness for the drink and cruelty to animals was the talk of the town.
It was on a cold winter's evening and a storm was imminent, when he set out on his old horse Needler for the village pub.
The old women standing in the doorway of their neglected cottages were chatting with Nigel the postman about the old age pension and that it wouldn’t be long now before he took retirement himself, but before he could reply, a flash of lightning lit up the night sky followed by an enormous clap of thunder.
''Look'' said old woman O'Brien. "What is it?" asked her sister Safflower. Then they saw the silhouette of horse and rider galloping towards the village at a speed you wouldn't think possible for an old working horse.
The poor nag was foaming at the mouth, working hard all day in the fields with scarcely a drop of water to quench his thirst, nor a bag of oats to fill his hungry belly, had taken it's toll on him.
''The way that ignoramus treats that poor animal'', old woman Bunts said to her lifelong friend Safflower, who had often witnessed him mishandling the poor old horse. ''He should be arrested for cruelty to animals.''
''And sure who's going to arrest that blackguard? Isn't he a big bully and all are afraid of him", interrupted Safflower.
''We are in for a vile one'', remarked the postman, getting into his van and drove to the old bog road in a hailstorm. He was fond of animals himself and especially horses and felt Needler’s pain.
After delivering his last parcel, he passed the ruffian lashing poor Needler with a whip, he could see the foam gathering on the horses flanks and underbelly in the van's headlights.
Driving on, with pain in his heart, he headed to the pub for a pint of ale, where he told his tale to the locals who were maddened with the shenanigans of farmer Smith and demanded that Sergeant O'Hara, the local Garda Síochána, who was drinking a wee dram and heating his backside at the fireside, put a stop to it once and for all.
''I'll have a word with him when he gets here", he said.
''Don't upset Smith too much", said doctor Mac Healer, "remember he has a bad ticker.''
An hour passed and still no sign of farmer Smith. ''I'll better go look for him'' said the Sergeant.
''I'll come with you'' the doctor said and they drove off, the rain coming down in bucketfuls.
Just outside the village they saw farmer Smith in the car's headlights, laying on the bog road.
The doctor jumped out of the car and checked his pulse. It was weak and he asked Smith what happened.
''Heart attack", he mumbled, before he died.
''Looks like the poor bugger was trying to crawl to the village for help", said the Garda''.
About a mile further back the old bog road they found poor Needler’s foam washed carcass.
''I'll bet he also suffered a heart attack" said the doctor. :party:
It was on a cold winter's evening and a storm was imminent, when he set out on his old horse Needler for the village pub.
The old women standing in the doorway of their neglected cottages were chatting with Nigel the postman about the old age pension and that it wouldn’t be long now before he took retirement himself, but before he could reply, a flash of lightning lit up the night sky followed by an enormous clap of thunder.
''Look'' said old woman O'Brien. "What is it?" asked her sister Safflower. Then they saw the silhouette of horse and rider galloping towards the village at a speed you wouldn't think possible for an old working horse.
The poor nag was foaming at the mouth, working hard all day in the fields with scarcely a drop of water to quench his thirst, nor a bag of oats to fill his hungry belly, had taken it's toll on him.
''The way that ignoramus treats that poor animal'', old woman Bunts said to her lifelong friend Safflower, who had often witnessed him mishandling the poor old horse. ''He should be arrested for cruelty to animals.''
''And sure who's going to arrest that blackguard? Isn't he a big bully and all are afraid of him", interrupted Safflower.
''We are in for a vile one'', remarked the postman, getting into his van and drove to the old bog road in a hailstorm. He was fond of animals himself and especially horses and felt Needler’s pain.
After delivering his last parcel, he passed the ruffian lashing poor Needler with a whip, he could see the foam gathering on the horses flanks and underbelly in the van's headlights.
Driving on, with pain in his heart, he headed to the pub for a pint of ale, where he told his tale to the locals who were maddened with the shenanigans of farmer Smith and demanded that Sergeant O'Hara, the local Garda Síochána, who was drinking a wee dram and heating his backside at the fireside, put a stop to it once and for all.
''I'll have a word with him when he gets here", he said.
''Don't upset Smith too much", said doctor Mac Healer, "remember he has a bad ticker.''
An hour passed and still no sign of farmer Smith. ''I'll better go look for him'' said the Sergeant.
''I'll come with you'' the doctor said and they drove off, the rain coming down in bucketfuls.
Just outside the village they saw farmer Smith in the car's headlights, laying on the bog road.
The doctor jumped out of the car and checked his pulse. It was weak and he asked Smith what happened.
''Heart attack", he mumbled, before he died.
''Looks like the poor bugger was trying to crawl to the village for help", said the Garda''.
About a mile further back the old bog road they found poor Needler’s foam washed carcass.
''I'll bet he also suffered a heart attack" said the doctor. :party: