Run Chicken, Run!

I'm at my aunt and uncle's house in the country this week. It's an absolutely gorgeous house filled with antiques and my aunt's art works. It's pretty much a vacation. Located on about 10 acres with a pond and weeping willows and garden after garden, it's also home to some goats (for goats milk) and chickens, and several dogs and cats. Let me lay this out there, I pretty much hate chickens. I like eggs and fried chicken and any chicken dish you can imagine. I detest, nay, loathe, live chickens.

Far be it from me to disturb any chicken for fear they might claw my eyes out. Yet disturb I had to otherwise the mean ol' fox in the field might eat them or that chops-licken' raccoon down by the pond. So being the good niece that I am and fulfilling my house-sitting/farmhand responsibilities I headed back out to the barn to round me up some chickens. I would have left them alone to sleep (or die) in peace (unless they're dying) but no, cousin Josh thought it most imperative that the chicken coop contain all chickens. Forget that I might get my eyes CLAWED OUT! Forget that I might never get to see again! Forget that no chicken is important enough to risk physical harm! Nope, come hell or high-water, them chickens was going in th'coop.

Armed with nothing but my trusty dog Murphy (chuckle, yeah, not feeling the whole trusty part with a name like Murphy, but you never know) and a huge dose of courage, I strutted into that barn like a Banty rooster, sized up a hen, and squinting through my right eye (hey, if I'm going to lose them to a flippin' chicken, I'm not going down with eyes wide open), I reached out and hoped for the best. Well, if hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, I'd hate to see what the analogy is for a disgruntled layer. That hen let loose like her tail was on fire. Feathers flew, hay flew, and squawking like you've never heard before. You would have thought I was chasing her with a frying pan the way she let off.

Chickens 1, Sarah 0

There were 3 hens left on the fence so I gathered my wits and headed for the second one. By the way, Murphy, my fearless companion, yeah, not so fearless. He was huddled behind some hay bales watching me with an amused expression on his black curly face as if to say, "well, I never said I'd help!" And the goats! Oh those Alpines, I knew they were mocking me! They were all lined up in a row to watch the action. I'm surprised the peacocks weren't around hooting and hollering. Well, it's better than having a human audience..... I think.

The next chicken snatching fared as well as the first, only this time all the chickens left the fence and scattered throughout the barn. Great, now my chicken record's as good as my P-I-G record against my 11 year old brother! Just then my little eye spied some other, more sleepy looking, victims in the goat pen. At this point I was bound and determined that at least one chicken was going to get in that coop if it was the last thing I did. So I snuck into that goat pen, along the wall, and over to the corner where my last chances at redemption dozed peacefully (or so I thought). If I had snuck up behind them and set of a fog-horn it wouldn't have been any different. This time I held on longer and did my best to secure that blasted chicken in the crook of my arm (apparently that's what you're supposed to do). But apparently the tighter you cling to that chicken, the more frantic it becomes, and this time ALL the chickens outside of the coop, along with the one previously held in my arms, ran either all through the barn or outside into the night. And Murphy chased them. And I stood there, wounded and dejected. And the goats laughed.

Apparently herding chickens doesn't work as well. Tomorrow night, if that chicken doesn't make it's coop-curfew, well, say hello to Mr. Fox and Mr. Raccoon, they've an outstanding invitation to dinner.