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