From the beginning, Luanne knew that all Gerard wanted was her feathers. His protectiveness seemed wrought of genuine love, but she could tell it was her luxurious down that he was really safeguarding. Many times she had seen him furtively retrieve feathers that she had lost walking around the yard or in her bed. And whenever she took ill, she could see through his affected concern to his dissimulated desire that she finally croak so he could make his winter coat or comforter or whatever it was that he so coveted.

Although she knew Gerard was not bright enough to make the connection, even if he were cultured enough to recognize the tune, Luanne would sometimes cluck "Go Tell Aunt Rhody" and chuckle to herself. Sometimes something would click in Gerard’s little brain and he would cross his eyes and spit, "Are you laughing at me, my dear Luanne?" but this would only make her laugh harder.

When all was said and done, Gerard treated her well. He groomed her with the utmost care (occasionally pocketing a loose feather here and there). He selected the choicest grains of corn for her meals (for, of course, healthful food produces better down), and arranged the kernels neatly in a pile for more convenient pecking (though the pyramid of corn always reminded Luanne of a cairn). He intimidated the other hens to keep her solidly on top of the pecking order (lest she become one of the unfortunate members of the lower strata, who were so often mangled and scarred). Her life was very pleasant thanks to him, and, after all, what did she care what became of her feathers after her passing?

When the tomcat opened the door of the coop one evening and announced that Farmer Gaffney was going to be taking all the chickens to market in the morning to be sold to butchers, the thought of Gerard didn’t once cross Luanne’s mind. Along with the other hens, she followed the tomcat through the yard to a place where the gopher had dug a nicely sized hole under the fence. One by one, they scrambled through it to freedom.

It was only later, when her rich feral life was coming to a peaceful close, that she thought of Gerard again. On her deathbed, she asked an owl to carry her corpse back to the farm as a gift for him.

"Please inform him," she told the owl, "that with a bit of oil and a soft brush, he can make my feathers as fluffy and soft as they were in my youth."

"But this Gerard wished you ill," the owl replied.

"No more ill can come to me," said Luanne. And she was right, for in the very next moment, she kicked the bucket.