Every farmer has their season of triumphs, but Mattma’s summer was not one of them. It was, instead, a parade of failures so ridiculous they could only be described as sitcom-worthy. Between a flock of rebellious chickens and a heatwave that turned the farmyard into an oven, Mattma found himself starring in his own tragicomedy: A Poultry Pandemic and Scorching Summer.
It all began in June, when the chickens suddenly decided to unionize. Or at least, that’s what it looked like. Overnight, egg production dropped to zero, and the hens began gathering in a huddle every morning, clucking in unison like they were holding secret strategy meetings. Mattma tried to reason with them, but they only squawked louder, as if mocking his leadership.
Then came the great escape. One morning, Mattma opened the coop door to feed them, and instead of lining up for breakfast, the hens burst out like they were storming the beaches. Feathers flew, beaks jabbed, and within minutes the flock had scattered across the farm. He spent three sweaty hours chasing them down, only to realize they’d laid eggs in every impossible location: under the tractor seat, inside the doghouse, and—mysteriously—balanced on top of the mailbox.
As if the poultry mutiny wasn’t enough, the summer heat turned the farm into a sauna. The thermometer hit triple digits, and the animals reacted accordingly. The pigs wallowed so deep in the mud pit that Mattma wasn’t sure he’d ever see them again. The goats broke into the sprinkler system and claimed it as their personal water park. And the donkeys? They simply stood in the shade, glaring at Mattma as if this entire heatwave were somehow his fault.
Mattma tried everything to keep the farm running. He set up makeshift fans in the barn, but the extension cords tangled so badly that one gust of wind nearly sent the whole setup tumbling like a domino line. He bought a kiddie pool for the chickens, thinking they’d splash around and cool off. Instead, they used it as a bathroom.
By July, the situation had escalated into full-on disaster. The heat fried the garden crops, leaving behind sad, wilted stalks that looked more like props from a horror movie than food. The well pump groaned under the strain of constant use, sputtering like it was ready to quit. And just when Mattma thought things couldn’t possibly get worse, the rooster decided to crow at 2 a.m. every night. Sleep deprivation combined with chaos created a farmer who was one meltdown away from clucking right along with his flock.
But here’s the thing about farm fails: they eventually turn into farm stories. And Mattma discovered that nothing bonds people faster than laughing at disaster. Neighbors came by with cold drinks and sympathy, sharing their own tales of runaway goats and melted feed buckets. Friends teased him mercilessly but also pitched in, helping patch up fences and haul water during the hottest days.
By the time the first cool breeze of September rolled in, Mattma’s “poultry pandemic” had settled down, and egg production miraculously returned. The garden was gone, but at least the animals had survived the scorched earth summer.
Sure, it wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t easy. But it was unforgettable. And in the end, Mattma learned that farming isn’t about perfection—it’s about surviving the chaos with humor intact.
