“You’ve been a good neighbour, Gerard, and I don’t think this needs to come between us.” Mr. Hansen had an infamous habit of inadvertently calling on nearby farmhouses at undesirable moments, but 6 a.m. on a Sunday was invasive even for him. Indicating behind him with a jerk of his thumb, he lowered his voice to a rasping whisper, “But your new swamp monster is causing a ruckus.”

“My-” The bleary eyed farmer ducked around his neighbour to peer into the front field. The sight would have torn the breath from his lungs if he wasn’t still foggy in a morning daze. An enormous frame heaving with slimy vines swayed, tall as a twiny willow on lumbering stalks of legs. Thick ropes of algae-crusted shoulders gleamed slick in the early light and hung over a beady scaled face. Gerard managed to peep out an “Oh.”

Fortunately, the creature seemed entirely unconcerned with the conversation on the doorstep.

“It’s left a good trampling all over my lettuce, those big stumpy footprints it has,” Mr. Hansen started. The two men winced at the spine-rumbling thump it made in a cumbersome attempt to shake a thorny weed from the husk of its ankle. The weed squelched to a mush in a sprinkle of bog green kelp. “Lettuce is still green as ever. Mind you, slushier than before. And gives off this uncanny stink of… oyster?”

“H-hey, it’s getting to my chickens!”

In a few steps, the monster found itself toes-deep in grain, surrounded by the birds. It sputtered in confusion as if the clucking hens were a foreign fluffy force.

Mr. Hansen, ignoring its ungraceful progress through the farm, went on, “I imagine it wouldn’t do wonders for the produce value.” Thump. “Mine or yours. Surely you could arrange to keep it somewhere else.”

“Well—I’ve never seen a swamp monster before today.”

“Neither have I, neighbour.”

“And certainly no intention of keeping it anywhere… other than out of my chicken fences.”

A fervent chicken squawked in protest as the swamp monster clumsily clobbered its nest. Gooey egg slushed underneath it as it stomped in irritation, a flock of furious fowl gathering at its toes.

“Oh that’s a shame. Your swamp monster just crushed your chicken eggs.”

“It’s not my swamp monster—” Gerard swallowed weakly as they stared on at it, towering not 100 yards from where he’d slept the night before.

Once the swamp monster had gotten tired of stomping about squishing the pretty little white hen's eggs and watching the yellow of their yolks drip between its clumsy toes the big lummox of a thing turned and made its way back to the swamp it came from, positioned in a low lying dip between Gerard's and Hansen's farms.

Back in the chicken enclosure tempers were high when its inhabitants finally floated back down from the rafters to ground level.

"So what in all tarnation was THAT?" demanded Buttercup, the loudest and plumpest young chicken of the coop. The other chickens clucked in confusion.

"I'm guessing it was some kind of not-a-chicken," ventured Rusty the rooster.

Buttercup snorted. "Well, my, I wish I'd thought of that," she sighed. "Of COURSE the nasty thing wasn't a chicken. Since when have chickens been as tall as the coop's roof and covered in yuck?" The other chickens chattered in agreement.

"I, er..." Rusty simpered.

"And where were you when it was in here stamping all over our precious little gifts? You're the 'boss' around the farm. Weren't you meant to be protecting us from predators and other dangerous not-a-chickens?"

Rusty drew himself up and fluffed out his chest feathers. "I was here. I did my duty. I protected Farmer's most important asset."

Buttercup scoffed, as did the others. "By which I suppose you mean... you," she sneered.

"Why certainly," agreed Rusty. "Hens can be gotten anywhere. Roosters are rare and much, much more valuable."

Buttercup shook her head and walked away. "Not very valuable if we'd all been eaten, huh? Then who would you be the boss of?"

The other chickens were now gathered in a corner of the pen. Farmer Gerard was already busy replacing the chicken wire where the monster had broken through and they were keeping out of his way. Buttercup went to join them.

Later that evening all the chickens were on their roosts, heads tucked in, trying to sleep. Every now and then one would give out a little yelp as a stray memory of the day's events passed through their tiny brains.

Buttercup and the oldest chicken on the farm, Daisy, were the only ones still awake. Daisy was elderly by chicken standards, but well-loved by all her fellows. Long egg-less, the others helped her out with an occasional spare egg to prevent her ending up in Farmer Gerard's pot, the inevitable fate of all oldsters the foxes didn't get first. In some ways, Daisy was like a mother to the younger birds.

"We need to take a stand," said Buttercup, suddenly.

Daisy jumped. "What stand? Take it where?" she demanded.

Buttercup shook out her feathers and resettled. "We chickens need to take a stand against that horrible not-a-chicken that trashed our home. We can't lie down for this type of thing. Neither rooster nor even the farmer is doing anything about the thing. We can't have it living on the farm. We have to tell it it's gotta move on. It doesn't belong here. Otherwise we'll be afraid for out little gifts every day."

Daisy shrugged. "Little gifts are not chickens, Buttercup," she pointed out. "Not any more."

"No," her friend concurred. "But they ARE valuable, Daisy. We give our little gifts to the farmer and he repays us with grain. Otherwise how would we survive?"

Daisy glanced around. "Time was we survived fine on bugs and seeds out in the field. Grain's not everything."

Buttercup scoffed. She was too young to remember that Farmer Gerard used to let his poultry run free in the fields. In her day, Daisy and her contemporaries had been free-range.

"I think we need to get to the swamp." Buttercup continued. "The not-a-chicken stank of the swamp on a hot day. I say we take the fight right to him."

"Fighting schmighting," murmured Daisy. "Chickens don't fight."

"Ah," replied Buttercup. "But roosters do..."

Daisy nodded. "Yes, you're right, Buttercup. My pappy Cock-a-Doodle was a champion in his youth. Nearly killed him but farmer let him retire to the farm and he survived. But where are we going to find a rooster brave enough to tackle a swamp whatnot?"

Buttercup smirked. She had an idea.

Three weeks later Farmer Gerard and his neighbour Hansen were leaning over the gate of Gerard's hen enclosure.

"I tell you it's true, Mr. Hansen. I've only heard about it on TV. One of those astounding facts shows. But it's really happened right here on my farm."

Hansen looked unimpressed. "Never heard of a hen crowing like a rooster. Doesn't happen."

"I tell you it's true. I only got one rooster but every morning now I hear two."

Right at that moment Buttercup popped her head out of the roost. On the top of it was an unmistakeable comb, not so big but definitely a comb. She came all the way out and strutted over to the gate where she stopped, flapped her wings, inflated her chest and crowed with all her might.

The two farmers shoved their fingers into their ears.

"Not pretty," said Gerard. "But that there is definitely a cock-crow."

"Have to agree with you," Hansen admitted. "You got yourself some kind of a freak there."