Emunicipality had been feeling out of sorts for a while.

For one thing, he was a bit of a pedant and felt his name wasn’t grammatically coherent. If it were, it would be A Municipality. 

It didn’t matter, of course. Actually, it was wholly irrelevant and his owners called him Pal anyway.

The long name? Well, Pal was an emu and his farmer-owners being practical folks, didn’t fuss over classifications – they had other fish to fry.   

They named him Emunicipality. The pun was mildly emusing but Pal was appalled. He suddenly grasped that being an emu wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. 

Worse, he was a Buddhist and rabidly opposed the taking of any life, particularly his own. 

He had only recently twigged on to the peril awaiting him. A cynical pig named Francis Bacon had found out what bacon really meant and realised he was heading into a hambush. And because Pal was a pal, he’d informed  him.  

Pal wished he hadn’t. What’s a neurotic emu to do? 

Sheriff’s Deputy John Keisler was the first to receive a call of the breakout. An agitated voice from Cooper’s Farm agitatedly told him that an emu had busted the joint and flown the coop. 

“Coop,” opined Mr Keisler clearly. “What we have here is a crime. It’s as plain as the nose on your face”   

As he was speaking to the farmer, Keisler was clear. The sheriff’s deputy, one of Florida’s finest with 26 years under his paunch-straining belt, was precise. 

Actually, he was clear about most things including remaining a sheriff’s deputy for the foreseeable future. They lived longer: the Gospel according to Clapton had been very specific about that.  

He’d seen escaped pigs, cows, even a skunk once. But this was the first animal, Keisler, an officer at the St John’s County Sheriff’s Department, wasn’t sure how to pronounce.   

An emu isn’t your average pet. It can grow up to six-feet in height and, with proper diet, can weigh as much as 60 kg. 

It’s also reputed to have a nasty temper and, apparently, knows how to kick. When pressed, it can also achieve speeds of up to 30 miles an hour. 

The intrepid Keisler attempted to secure the beast  but the large bird sneered at all his commands. For good measure, it attempted to cause him grievous bodily harm, kicking him several times and trying to use its large talons.

Finally, it fled on foot. Its flight was logged by the sheriff’s department as “reckless.”

Not to be outdone, Keisler ended up lassoing the emu and then using his handcuffs to secure its legs. It was the first time Florida’s finest had ever cuffed a bird.

“It was fowl, but at least it wasn’t a four-letter bird,” reflected  the demure deputy. 

Needless to say, Emunicipality was not just defiant, he was unrepentant. “There was fight all right but no flight, that was the rub,” brooded the Shakespeare-loving bird sadly.

But he was also a philosopher. “We wing some, we lose some.” 

It might have been the problem. Emus are flightless birds. 

Unlike Florida’s  most famous son who didn’t know the meaning of either word, the state dispensed both justice and mercy in the case of Florida vs Emunicipality. The emu was not injured and was returned to its owner.

In addition, “all criminal charges against said emu were dropped,” the police declared.

ENDS