Pyewacket woke with the rooster’s cock-a-doodle-do. She stretched her front legs kneading the hay with her claws. Her tail twitched at the thought of pouncing on that cranky old bird. She had been up most of the night ridding the barn of mice. The farmer expected her to do her job. The rooster crowed on the barn roof again. She would have to find someplace else for her morning nap.
The hay stacked to the rafters made a stairway for Pyewacket. She jumped down from bale to bale. She stepped along the edge of the sheep’s feeding trough like a tightrope walker. Large black headed sheep lifted their faces to regard her and bleated their greeting. This was not the place for a nap.
Pyewacket trotted across the barnyard as chickens pecked at the corn the farmer had scattered earlier. Hens stretched up on their toes and flapped their wings when she got too close to their chicks. She jumped sideways to avoid beak and claw. This was not the place for a nap.
At the stable Pywacket made her way to a freshly cleaned stall. She squeezed through a broken plank at the bottom of the stall door. She lifted her paws high to walk through the fresh hay that filled the space; winding her way between the horses’ legs. A new born colt struggled to its feet tottered for a minute and then took three shaky steps to get a drink from its mother. This was not the place for a nap.
The screen door on the farm house screeched and banged shut. Pyewacket streaked across the lawn and found a bowl of warm fresh milk by the porch steps. She lapped the milk until her muzzle was white with cream. She cleaned it off with her rough tongue. The farmer’s wife sat on a chair shelling peas. Pyewacket jumped up on the farmer’s wife’s lap spilling the bowl. She found herself dumped back on the ground. This was not the place for a nap.
Around the corner of the house a basket sat under the oak tree. Nearby the empty clothes line stretched across a sunny spot in the yard; clothes pins dangling from the wires. Sun-baked clothes filled the basket. Pyewacket curled up on the pile of folded laundry. This was the perfect place for a nap.
This is a story I wrote for a writing contest this past month. The criteria was a children's story less than 400 words.
