the chickens give me no respect

The following story is true in its entirety. You have my word, whatever that is worth to you.

Bethany went to the women's retreat for our church this weekend, leaving me in charge. This meant I had to: 1) feed, bathe, clothe and entertain our two boys; 2) feed, bathe, clothe and entertain myself (a monumental task in its own right); and 3) take care of the chickens

If you follow Bethany's blog, then you know that we have chickens in our back yard. I think we have 12. I can never count them because they're always running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Bethany and the boys love the chickens. I try to stay away from the chickens. I don't have a good vibe going with the chickens.

So I wake up on Saturday morning, start the coffee, read the Bible, pray, lounge around in bed for a bit, and then I remember that I have to let the chickens out of their coups and feed them. As I walk out across the cold, wet grass, I can the see the coups quivering like hives full of angry bees. The chickens are unhappy because I should have let them out sooner. Things are already off to bad start.

I open their little doors and they come waddling out into their pen, scorning me with their wee beady little eyes. As is typical, they immediately knock over their water and food containers and then stand there, waiting for someone to take care of the mess. Grumbling, I pick up the containers and carry them off to the giant garbage cans full of chicken food on the side of the house.

Two minutes later, I turn around and realize that I've left the gate to the pen open, and the chickens are wandering around the yard, looking fiendish. I try to chase them back into the pen. This does not work. You might think chickens are funny and cute in a silly sort of way, but if you haven't tried to catch one, then you have know idea what you're talking about. They have claws and beaks and they can slap you in the face with their wings. This is what they did to me.

Finally it dawns on me that Jackson, our four-year-old, has helped Bethany round up the chickens many times. I go inside, burst into his bedroom, and wake the lad from his cherubic sleep.

"Jackson, time to get up. I have a really important job for you. I need you to help me get the chickens back in their cages."

Jackson stumbles bleary eyed into the kitchen and begins to put his boots on.

"Dad," he says, "do you want to know another really important job?"

"What's that Jackson?"

"Don't let the chickens out of their cages."

I'm not making that up. He really said that.

I post Jackson by the gate to the pen so that he can herd the chickens into it as I chase after them. This works almost immediately for two of the dumber chickens. The rest run off to a different corner of the yard.

Suddenly, all the chickens freeze and hunker down to the ground. They are watching a little tuft of black and white fur peaking out from the grass a few yards away. It's Spider, our murderous, sociopathic cat. Spider is small and kind of cute to look at, but she's a born killer. She enjoys destroying life. She could easily kill a chicken if she put her mind to it, and I can tell she's putting her mind to it.

I look over at Jackson. He's wiggling and he has a grimace on his face.

"Dad, I have to go potty."

I send the boy back inside and I'm on my own again. Fortunately, the chickens are now terrified of the cat and they want nothing more than to be back inside the safety of their pen. All of them allow me to chase them back in except for one - the dumbest bird by far. It misses the gate and instead starts to careen around the yard like a chicken with its head - never mind.

I am determined to catch this rogue chicken with my bare hands and stick it back in the pen, but as I start off across the yard again, I feel a strange tickling sensation in my right arm pit. The tickling turns into a sudden, sharp pain. I start jerking around and smacking myself, as there is obviously something messing around in my armpit that should not be there. After a few seconds, an angry, disoriented hornet flies out of my shirt. It has left two red, throbbing bite marks under my armpit that produce a fresh sting even as I write these words.

Meanwhile, Spider has moved in closer for the kill.

I am tempted to look up into the heavens and ask God why he has decided to smite me this morning, but I think better of it and instead chase after the prodigal chicken with a new determination. As it tries to make a loop around the pen, it runs face first into a bucket with a loud, hollow "thwack!" and stops, stunned. I grab it, waiting to have my eyes clawed or pecked out at any second, race to the gate, and toss that sucker back inside. Spider slinks off with an air of obvious disappointment.

Mission accomplished. I stare at the chickens, using non-verbal communication to let them know that I am in charge and that this kind of behavior will not be tolerated during the remainder of the weekend.

They look back at me as if to say, "Go put some pants on and leave us alone, you incompetent ninny. If you are so careless as to leave our gate open, then of course we shall take the opportunity to prance about the yard on our skinny, yellow little legs."

I thought about ending this story by saying that I went inside to check out some good recipes for baked chicken, but that would not be true. Plus, I don't believe in being cruel to animals.

I just wish they would give me a little respect, that's all.