George and Tony

“Get off my land!” George shouted at his own scarecrow, he was fed up with its holier-than-thou attitude. This morning George had brought along his saw, rusty from lack of use, ready to cut the bastard down, but when he got there, the big lump of wood, straw and old clothes just stood staring at him with those old milk bottle tops and he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Since he’d lost his wife three years ago, Tony – the name he’d given the scarecrow – was his only companion; they’d spent many hours together, chatting away. George had found him to be a good listener at first but in the last few months, Tony had changed. No longer would he stand there and allow George to ramble on, he seemed bored with all the farmer’s complaints and George was convinced that he just wasn’t listening half the time.

As the evening sun dropped below the horizon, George slumped to the damp ground in front of Tony and laid the saw down. “Why do I even bother talking to you?” he asked.

Tony didn’t really know what to say.

“I wish I’d never made you. You’re just a rude, ill-mannered waste of time; you don’t even scare the birds away. You think I don’t see you out here with them? I bet you talk to them, don’t you?”

Tony chose to ignore him.

“I really should chop you down! At least then you wouldn’t keep mocking me like you do now, standing there like you own the place. Who do you think you are anyway?”

Tony had no answer for him.

“Yeah, that’s right. It’s my bloody farm and if you don’t like it you can bugger off!” George stood up and walked away.

“Maybe I will,” said Tony, bending down and picking up the saw.