Greetings, salutations, and good cheer.
I’ve been consuming festival leftovers in the form of highly fermented dairy products. Given the low alcohol tolerance of the feline physiology, I do believe I remain slightly inebriated. Please forgive inadvertent typos or awkward turns of phrase, as I am feeling uncharacteristically loose about grammar and syntax.
After intense preparation and thoughtful execution, our first annual PAPSE (Party at the Patch Storytelling Extravaganza) is now concluded. Presenters entertained the audience with all manner of stories, from speculative memoir to post-apocalyptic Feeder-free adventure.
Several of our very own Patch residents received awards and acclamation:
o Despite my efforts to exclude them, the vocalizations of the geese were so loud that, while they remained outside the festival grounds, their chatter drowned out all attempts at storytelling. To avert cancellation due to attendee frustration, we invited the geese to participate from a distance. Setting aside their in-triplicate delivery (for an example of this unfortunate characteristic, see Henry the Besieged), the geese provided an entertaining tale of global migration and received the Award for Oratorical Projection.
o Pudge partnered with the largest of the piglets to perform a porcine ode to fermented grain. The audience responded with uproarious laughter, quite the sound given the multitude of species on hand. Pudge and Big Piglet’s performance received the Audience Favorite Award. Unlike cats, pigs have a long tradition of extreme inebriation. Pigs of all ages prefer that their food be fermented and will intentionally increase their rate of consumption of fermented foods to attain a porcine buzz. With short legs and heavy, tubular bodies, the gait of pigs is not affected by their intake, even when they are so soused as to be incoherent. A drunk pig behaves remarkably similarly to a sober pig, and I wager that a certain Feeder might not even notice when her pigs have been sipping from the grain bucket. Do you remember Wilma’s unfortunate episode several days ago when she hit the wall of the farrowing hut in her attempt to squeeze in the narrow door? She was on the sauce.
o The Head Hen concluded our festival with the recitation of a poem heralding the avian heroes in the fight to organize workers. Her presentation was of such a length that she paused mid-epic to lay an egg in a nearby clump of grass. The Guinea hens – who lay their eggs in all manner of random locations – cheered her spontaneous delivery, and bestowed upon her the Award for Narrative Endurance.
I refrained from presenting at this year’s festival out of concern that my masterful oration might discourage aspiring participants, but I was gratified to receive copious praise on my organizational skills. The Head Hen said that, “for once,” I had “let someone else talk,” which I took as a compliment.
Please arrange for backup mouse patrol, as I’ll be recuperating from the exertions of directing the festival and largely horizontal for the next several days.
In heat stroke and digestive upset,
Henry
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