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THE SIMPLE LIFE
Death By Chicken
We made a pecking mistake
Scott made it perfectly clear we would never have chickens, simply stomping away and mumbling things like, “vicious” or “feathered bastards”, whenever the topic came up.
Apparently having 200 of the screaming lawn ornaments in the backyard as a child creates adults that loathe the creatures unless they are presented to you in the form of a McNugget.
Scott was not going to muck out chicken coops. He was not going to collect eggs from under a hormonal, broody hen. And, under no circumstances, was Scott going to willingly get in an enclosed space with those walking, clucking balls of spite.
He liked his fingers, eyeballs and testicles right where they were, thank you very much.
But after moving from our postage stamp subdivision home to an idyllic farmhouse in the country, Scott finally caved.
It took me by surprise.
Did I pester and nag him for five solid years about absolutely needing a flock of chickens? Sure.
Did I ever think that Scott would actually cave? Hell no!
It’s not that I don’t theoretically like the idea of having fresh eggs, or the organic mosquito control, but in practice I am terrified of those…
