My husband has decided to raise chickens. I have a thing about chickens–well, birds in general, but chickens most especially. I’m convinced they’re evil and altogether not to be trusted. So here’s our deal:
I will not feed the chickens. I will not touch the chickens. I will not gather eggs, muck the coop, bring them water or otherwise engage. If they get loose, I wish them good luck and godspeed; and if they get mowed over on the highway–it’s their tough cluck. (BAhahahahaha! I kill me!)
Ahem. Back to our agreement.
We haven’t even gotten the scary beasts yet and have run into a snag. Namely, my husband is unavailable to go get them and would like me to do it. Me. Trapped in a minivan with a dozen of those really scary creatures plotting who-knows-what in the back. <boogety!>
I figure I should probably do this thing–it’s a simple request from the man I love. And it’s not like I have to actually touch them, is it? Well I’m not going unarmed, I can tell you that! I’m grabbing the biggest Mag flashlight I can find and holding it on my lap. If one of those evil peepers crawls, climbs or otherwise gnaws its way through that box, it’ll be a chicken pancake!
Upholstery be damned, this is War.
Onward to the next chapter: The Evil Chickens have Landed
Funny post! My sister has a thing about birds as well. Her kids’ cockatiel got loose in her bedroom this weekend and she had to go hide in another room until they caught it. She hates to be “fluttered” as she calls it.
Yes! Yes! That’s it exactly! It’s the fluttering around the face. My sister in law has a cockatiel as well. That thing landed on my shoulder once and began to flap its wings. I thought I’d pass out on the spot!
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