Henry the donkey had always believed himself to be more sophisticated than the rest of the barnyard crowd. While the chickens fussed over pecking order and the goat was forever chewing on things he shouldn’t, Henry fancied himself a cultured gentleman. So, one crisp evening, he announced to the farmyard that he would be hosting a proper dinner party.
The chickens clucked in disbelief. The pig rolled over in the mud and snorted. Even the goat paused mid-chew on the fencepost to stare. But Henry was serious. He had seen the farmer’s family set a table with cloth, silverware, and even candles once, and he figured he could do the same—donkey-style.
Henry spent the afternoon preparing. His “dining table” was a sturdy hay bale, draped with a feed sack that had just enough holes to be called rustic. For a centerpiece, he proudly displayed a half-eaten pumpkin he had been saving since Halloween. Around it, he arranged a collection of carrots, corn cobs, and a surprisingly symmetrical pile of alfalfa. He even invited the barn cat to sit in as “entertainment,” though the cat only agreed if there would be leftover milk.
When the sun dipped low, the guests arrived. The chickens bustled in first, feathers fluffed, gossiping about whether this would be worth their time. The goat showed up late, of course, dragging along a stolen tin can he insisted was his contribution. The cow lumbered over gracefully, mooing about how she’d skipped her afternoon nap just to attend. Finally, the pig waddled in, eyeing the spread with unashamed hunger.
Henry cleared his throat with a loud bray. “Ladies and gentlemen of the barnyard,” he began, “welcome to my dinner party. Tonight, we feast!”
That was the cue for absolute chaos. The chickens mistook his announcement for a dinner bell and immediately scrambled onto the hay bale, pecking wildly at the corn. The goat lunged straight for the watermelon that Henry had been saving as dessert, cracking it open with his horns and diving face-first into the sweet, red mess. Seeds flew everywhere, one even landing on the pig’s snout, which only made him squeal with delight before joining in.
Henry tried to stomp his hoof to restore order, but instead the cow thought it was a musical signal and began moo-humming a deep, dramatic tune that sounded suspiciously like opera. The chickens, now in chorus, clucked along to the beat. The goat continued slurping watermelon, while the pig rolled happily in pumpkin guts.
“Excuse me!” Henry brayed, ears flicking with frustration. “This is supposed to be refined!”
But his pleas went unheard. The barnyard had transformed into something between a feast and a food fight. The feed sack tablecloth was torn, the pumpkin centerpiece flattened, and the carrots gnawed down to nubs. Even the barn cat, unimpressed at first, got swept up in the energy and began batting watermelon seeds across the floor like tiny soccer balls.
By the end of the night, every guest was stuffed and smiling, though the place looked like a storm had blown through. Henry, standing amid the wreckage, let out a long sigh. This was not the dignified soirée he had imagined. Still, he couldn’t help but feel proud. His friends were happy, full, and laughing—and isn’t that the true delight of a dinner party?
Of course, now the barnyard had expectations. As the animals drifted off to bed, the goat called over his shoulder, “Same time next week, Henry!”
Henry groaned, already wondering if anyone knew how to make carrot soufflé.
