Sheriff Neighbor, Scarecrow

            I would not call my parents “city-folk,” as they technically do not live in the city, but nevertheless it’s still a little unusual for a Silicon Valley engineer and a jeweler/former electrician to just decide “we’re quasi-farmers now.  In Menlo Park.”

            It’s definitely not bad unusual, though—now, we have ready access to ultra-fresh tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, carrots, and watermelon, and you can really taste it in Dad’s gazpacho.  Unfortunately, being rookies, they were shocked and horrified to find that birds! evil, evil birds! were attacking their sunflower plants.  I was occupied with more important things than maintaining that thing that gives us free food (the characters in JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure All-Star Battle won’t unlock themselves) when I absentmindedly asked why we didn’t just make a scarecrow.  They countered with “if you think that’ll help, we’ll pay you ten dollars to make a scarecrow.”

            So I did.  Meet Sheriff Neighbor.

Literally bursting with muscle.

            I met Sheriff Neighbor at the local thrift store.  He was down on his luck, and looked like he’d just been at the bad end of more than a few drunken brawls, so I decided to take him home with me.  As I tended to his wounds (when I found him, he had no arms, shirt, or even hat or sunglasses) he opened up, and told me his story.  Sheriff Neighbor is the heir to the estate of the Neighbor family, a wealthy family of horses in Texas whose lineage goes back to the 1700s.  For a time, the Neighbors practically ruled the horse population of Texas, but a series of hardships culminating in the rise of trains and cars ultimately reduced them to being rich instead of powerful.  Sheriff Neighbor always viewed the lazy contentment of his relatives, who did nothing but sleep standing-up in piles of money and place bets on human races, as a disgusting waste.  He wanted to do something important, something meaningful.  He wanted to be a cop.

            He failed.  “Sheriff,” rather than a title, is a first name; Sheriff Neighbor has no position of lawful authority of any kind.  For starters, he is a horse, and it is very difficult for horses to pass the written examinations required in police academy.  Additionally, Sheriff Neighbor is dangerous, unstable, and psychopathic, and would rather stomp somebody to death instead of trying to use handcuffs without the use of hands, a surprisingly difficult task.  As we talked, I mentioned that we needed something to scare birds away, and Sheriff Neighbor’s eyes went wide.

            “Listen here, you no-good son of a bitch,” he said, the stench of scotch whiskey and oats still fresh on his breath. “You’re going to give me hands and nail me to a board.  I’ll crush all those fucking birds between my mighty fingers.”  Sensing his desire for a position in security, and fearing what he would do to me if I refused, I complied.  So far, no birds have been crushed, but Sheriff Neighbor assures me it’s just a matter of time.  I have yet to receive my promised wages.