I am deathly afraid of our chickens.
I know. They can't hurt you. They aren't dangerous. They are nice. I know. But they terrify me.
It's the flap. They flap their wings suddenly and unexpectedly. And their wings are huge and likely to flap in my face. Therefore, I never go near them. Emery takes care of all their needs, and I avoid them.
"You're not going to like this," Mike said over the phone one glorious afternoon a few weeks ago.
"What's up?"
"The guy is coming to spray for dandelions, and the chickens have to be put into the coop. The chemicals can kill them."
"So are we getting Emery out of school so she can come home and do that?"
"He is on his way right now."
I looked around the empty house and wondered why in the world we didn't homeschool our kids just so one of them would be home at all times for emergencies like this one. With great trepidation, I climbed into the chicken pen and began telling twenty-seven hens to please hurry into their coop. That was ineffective. Then I began to shoo them. But they gave me the crazy eye and easily side-stepped me to pursue their freedom. I yelled at them. I commanded them. I ran at them. I roared at them. It was terrifying. For me.
Finally, with a groan and some tears, I accepted that I would have to catch them.
Catching them, though, is nearly impossible. They can't fly, but it seems as if they can. My strategy was to pick one and chase it into a corner. Then I would grab it, but it pulled out it's secret weapon - the flap. It would flap, and I was undone. Wings in my face, feathers in the air, but no chicken in my hands. I ran a marathon in that pen, and still only managed to catch a few. I roared at the sky and pulled on my hair. I was a tear-streaked, mud-covered mess.
The weed guy had probably never encountered a more distraught homeowner.
Stupid school.
I know. They can't hurt you. They aren't dangerous. They are nice. I know. But they terrify me.
It's the flap. They flap their wings suddenly and unexpectedly. And their wings are huge and likely to flap in my face. Therefore, I never go near them. Emery takes care of all their needs, and I avoid them.
"You're not going to like this," Mike said over the phone one glorious afternoon a few weeks ago."What's up?"
"The guy is coming to spray for dandelions, and the chickens have to be put into the coop. The chemicals can kill them."
"So are we getting Emery out of school so she can come home and do that?"
"He is on his way right now."
I looked around the empty house and wondered why in the world we didn't homeschool our kids just so one of them would be home at all times for emergencies like this one. With great trepidation, I climbed into the chicken pen and began telling twenty-seven hens to please hurry into their coop. That was ineffective. Then I began to shoo them. But they gave me the crazy eye and easily side-stepped me to pursue their freedom. I yelled at them. I commanded them. I ran at them. I roared at them. It was terrifying. For me.
Finally, with a groan and some tears, I accepted that I would have to catch them.
Catching them, though, is nearly impossible. They can't fly, but it seems as if they can. My strategy was to pick one and chase it into a corner. Then I would grab it, but it pulled out it's secret weapon - the flap. It would flap, and I was undone. Wings in my face, feathers in the air, but no chicken in my hands. I ran a marathon in that pen, and still only managed to catch a few. I roared at the sky and pulled on my hair. I was a tear-streaked, mud-covered mess.
The weed guy had probably never encountered a more distraught homeowner.
Stupid school.
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