The chickens mock me. They’re jerks!
Squawk (or however you spell how a chicken yells.)
“Leave me alone! Stop making fun of me.”
Reeee bbbb eeee ccccaaaa [there’s a creepy rhythm to how they say my name]
“Stop it. It’s not funny.”
Haaaa! [evil chicken laughter]
“Hey, I heard that!”
And they just laugh and laugh and laugh.
I’m serious. They’re like high school mean girls. They talk behind my back and tell their friends about me. Then they all cruel-cackle until I feel so deflated, I want to shove my head in a hole. I swear, if they had opposable thumbs, they’d defame me over social media while giving me the bird.
There’s a lot of interference between me and the neighbor’s Ritz Carlton Chicken Resort for Karen’s; two fences and a lot of bushes and trees. For the most part, they stay on their half acre retreat to mock me. You see, my neighbors have five or six chickens. Sally is the leader that flies the coop and really gets in my griddle and ruffles the feathers of the rest of the flock.
Occasionally, I’ll see Sally half-flutter, because her wings are trimmed, over her little netting and explore the wilderness of the back yard. But then there are times when she wanders too far and onto my property.
I’m not sure where she’s getting past one fence and through another exactly, but she somehow finds an opening and escapes into another realm, aka, my backyard. There, she enjoys roosting, or is it nesting, in my should have cleaned that pile a year ago loose limbs and leaves mound.
The first time I heard the leaf ruckus, I swore Big Foot meandered out of the mountains, dredged downhill a few dozen miles, unseen, popped a squat in my leaf pile and started playing patty-cake with his other cryptid friends. Turns out, it wasn’t Big Foot, but Queen Sally.
Just as Queen Sally made herself comfortable in her snazzy pimp shop, I yelled, “Get off my lawn!” in Fowl-nese. Of course, I’m not really sure if my translation is accurate. For all I know, I’m saying, “Tacos are awesome!” There’s not a Roseta Stone for chicken language that I’m aware of. Either way, she shakes her booty, does the wedding chicken dance, and waddles back to her coop.
One of these days, I’m going to marinate Queen Sally and her friends in some jerk spices and have a barbeque. I’m allergic to eggs, not chicken…which actually proves which came first.