Best Laid Plans

The Day of the Dragons has dawned. And poor Small Boy has been up since dawn, pacing and planning.
"I can't eat anythin'," he moans at breakfast. "My tummy is already full - of butterflies."
His pale little face is etched with worry as he bends over his carefully inscribed checklist of things that are needed to ensure the smooth running of the petting zoo (catchily named "Petz Corner") at the school Dragons' Den Fair this afternoon.
"You will remember to get the dog cage out of the shed, won't you Mum?" he asks, for the seventy-third time this week.
Suddenly there is a commotion outside the kitchen door: loud squawking and an inordinate amount of hissing. I rush to open the door and find the cats are producing the hissing whilst prowling around the boxes we use to transport them to the vets. The squawking is coming from inside the boxes. The cats are evidently deriving great pleasure from the spectacle of these small birds crammed together into the boxes, which, when the cats are forced into them for their yearly visit to the vet, cause Psycho Cat to pee herself and Jet to howl with misery. "We feel your pain and we are enjoying it," they seem to be saying.
The Dog, who hates to miss out on any excitement, chooses this moment to rush out and stick her nose excitedly up Psycho Cat's bum.
I close the door on the scene and return to my anxious son.
"Why have you put the chickens inside the cat boxes, exactly?" I ask.
"Duh, s'obvious," says Small Boy with an exaggerated eye roll.
"Is it? I thought you were using the dog cage to keep them in - it's a lot bigger," I point out.
"Mu-um!" wails Small Boy. "They would rattle around in that! We have to transport them in the cat boxes and then transfer them to the dog cage once we are at school. That's why I need your help this morning."
I am impressed. He has thought everything through. Mind you, he has been Skyping his Best Friend William about this event on a daily basis, talking through every angle of this venture. I tell myself I can leave Small Boy at school with four Pekins in the sure and certain knowledge that his plans are meticulously laid out and perfectly thought through.
"Fine!" I say. "So you've got nothing to be nervous about. Sit down and have some breakfast."

We arrive at school to find the teacher looking flappier than the flightiest hen. The room set aside for Petz Corner is already full of over-excited children peering at frightened guinea pigs and squealing at a quivering tortoise. The teacher's eyes widen with alarm at the sight of the squawking cat boxes.
"I think you should put the chickens outside," says the teacher firmly.
"But we can't!" protests Small Boy. "It's raining and their feathers will get wet."
It is indeed raining, and a water-logged Pekin is not a pretty sight.
Luckily Molly arrives to save the day. Her pet hamster was due to feature in Petz Corner until he prematurely and inconveniently died, so, having no animal husbandry to attend to, Molly has taken charge of logistics instead. Molly is good at logistics.
"Don't panic!" she says. "I have brought tarpaulin, so even if the chickens kick their poo out of the cage, it won't go on the carpet."
"Poo?" echoes the increasingly alarmed teacher. "No one said anything about poo."
He is clearly regretting not asking enough questions in the Dragons' Den briefing earlier in the term.
At last the Pekins are extracted from the cat boxes, settled carefully in the beautifully clean sawdust-strewn floor of the dog cage, and all is well.
"William!" cries Small Boy, espying his Best Friend. "I thought we said you wouldn't bring all of yours!" He is pointing, aghast, at his Best Friend who is setting down a box the size of a coffin. He lifts the lid and proudly reveals a potpourri of poultry in all shapes, sizes and colours. "We haven't got room for all those!" Small Boy protests. (Though, by the look on his face I think he is more concerned about the fact that his poultry seem rather, well, paltry, in comparison with William's.)
I am about to leave them to it, when the second commotion of the day starts up. This time it is chicken-on-chicken action. (I hestitate to get involved, remembering the last Skype argument William and Small Boy had. It went something along the lines of Small Boy berating his Best Friend for wanting to bring his cockerel, King Louis, into the Petz Corner. "You can't!" Small Boy had snapped. "King Louis always tries to hump my Pekin Titch and we can't have any humping in the Dragons' Den.")
I note with relief that the noise is not being caused by such unsavoury activity, but is in fact a spot of good old-fashioned hen-pecking.
"William!" cries Small Boy. "You've put your Pekin in with mine! And she's pecking mine! Get her out!"
At that point I do decide finally to leave them to it. I am now less sure than I was at the start of the day that this venture will run like clockwork after all. And as for Small Boy and William, there appears to be a large storm cloud approaching in the direction of their friendship.
I drive home, the phrase "Best Laid Plans" echoing ominously in my mind . . .