Terry the Chainsaw

Terry the Chainsaw wanted nothing more than to hug someone, but every time he got close, they ran.

It didn’t help that the mere thought of human contact revved his motor. Terry was a real self-starter. Nobody had to pull his chain to get him going. Too bad that kind of work ethic was frowned upon in anthropomorphic chainsaws.

He would swear up and down, “I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m a really good guy. I vote green to make up for using fossil fuels.” But nobody listened.

It didn’t matter that he had the cutest little cartoon face on his motor housing, with stick figure arms and legs sticking out of it, ending in white gloves and shoes. Nor did it matter that his saw was pointing up instead of out (all they had to do was get low to hug his body and avoid the saw).

All that mattered was his blade going rihn-rihn-rihn whenever he got excited.

Being a chainsaw was tough. People saw him first as a murder weapon. Second, as a landscaping tool. Thankfully, he could still get work as the latter.

Knock-knock.

The man opened his front door and looked at the empty doorframe where a knocker should be. Then something below his field of vision cleared its throat. There, on his welcome mat, stood a cherry red Husqvarna 120 Mark III.

“Goooooood morning, sir! My name’s Terry and I’m going around the neighborhood offering my services to anyone who might need them.”

“Services for what?”

“Well, sir, felling trees, limbing, anything you might need a chainsaw for.”

The man chuckled and slapped his belly. “Of course! You’re such an adorable little fella, didn’t even occur to me you might actually work.”

Terry jerked both thumbs up at his saw, gave a showman’s smile, and let loose a rihn-rihn.

The man startled. Laughed at himself for startling. Then waved him inside. “I’m sure I got some work around here for you, Terry. Name’s Sam Buchanan.”

Sam was a widower and kept the place looking well enough on his own. There wasn’t much to trim, but Sam insisted Terry had been a big help.

After wielding Terry all over his backyard with tender loving care, Sam set him down on a picnic table.

“I sure do appreciate the work, Sam.”

“Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you. Only gas and oil for me.”

After topping Terry off, Sam sat next to him and drank his tea.

“Say, how much I owe you?”

“A thousand dollars.”

Sam spit his tea out, then chuckled. “You got me there.”

But Terry wasn’t laughing. A cloud moved over the sun and his cherry-red finish darkened. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s what I’m due, Sam.”

In the living room, the old widower fumbled through a roll-top desk.

Terry sauntered around, admiring the tchotchkes on every surface, obviously the decorating touch of Sam’s dearly departed wife.

“Here’s two hundred more. That makes four-hundred. All I got…”

Terry ignored him. Picked up a framed photo of Deborah. “This must be your wife. She looks like the type of woman who paid her debts. Too bad I’m stuck with you.”

“I-I, oh, I just thought of where some more cash might be.”

Sam was tossing stuff out of his bedroom closet while Terry sat on his marital bed holding the picture of Deborah.

“Boy, she’s real pretty, Sam. I bet she made this house feel like a home.”

“This is it. This is all I have. On my life.”

Sam handed him three hundred more, bringing the total to seven hundred.

Terry stood up on the bed. His beaming smile snapped back in place.

“Lucky for you, Sam, I’m offering three hundred off my usual fee. All you have to do is give me a hug.” Terry stretched his arms wide and went rihn-rihn.

***

Terry strolled down the sidewalk, sun glinting off his sparkling clean saw blade, birds tweeting all around him. He had $700 in his pocket and, best of all, he’d gotten to hug someone.

He came upon an old lady pruning the bushes in her front yard.

“Howdy, ma’am! My name’s Terry and I’m going around the

neighborhood offering my services to anyone who might need them.”

The old lady lit up with amusement when she saw Terry, laughing at the spectacle of it. She practically floated over to him. Kneeled down for a closer look. “My, my, aren’t you the cutest little chainsaw I ever have seen. Uh-oh, let me see here, looks like you got ketchup on you.”

The woman pulled out a handkerchief, wet it with her tongue, then reached for his blade.

Squeaky-squeak.

“There, clean as a whistle.”