Slapstick
Like any good story, this one is about chickens.
Several weeks ago, we came home from running errands after dark, and when I went out to check on the chickens I discovered the coop door was closed and two of the chickens were still out in the yard. While Michelle went upstairs to bathe kids, I went out to hunt down the resident poultry.
As we've already learned, when it gets dark and the chickens can't make their way back into the coop, they take to the tree right behind the house. This night was no exception - there, way up above my head, a Rhode Island Red and a White Leghorn were roosting on a branch. Being from southern Utah, I tend to think anything below 60 degrees is life-threateningly cold, and I worried that if I left these chickens out they would be popsicles by morning (it actually WAS pretty cold that night). So I went out to the shed, grabbed a garden rake, and came back to coax the chickens down. The White Leghorn latched onto the handle pretty quickly, but as I lowered her down she jumped off and proceeded to run around the yard like a chicken with its head cut off (sorry, couldn't resist). After about 5 minutes, I finally managed to chase her down and get her in the coop. One down, one to go.
The other chicken just wouldn't latch onto the rake. And as I poked and prodded, she started flapping around and scraping against the sharp twigs. I was worried she'd skewer herself, so I threw the rake down in frustration and ran inside to get a bar stool. I climbed up to the branch where she was and finally managed to extricate her. After carrying her inside to check if she was bleeding (she wasn't), I took her back out and unceremoniously dumped her in the coop. Then it was back to the tree to pick up the stool.
At this point, it's pitch black in the back yard, and I'm huffing and stomping my feet a little in frustration at the night's events. I walked past the tree, took a step toward the stool . . . and out of nowhere something very hard and moving extremely quickly hit me in the face. For a split second, as the night flashed a bright white, I thought someone had hit me with a baseball bat. Of course, what actually happened was that I'd momentarily left reality and entered a Looney Tunes cartoon: I'd stepped on the teeth of the rake just right, and that handle popped up and clobbered me at nearly the speed of sound. It hit me in the corner of my left eye, breaking my glasses and knocking them clean off my face. I was laughing and crying and cursing all at the same time. It didn't bleed too bad, but left a black eye that lasted a week, leaving me plenty of opportunities to tell the story to friends and coworkers.
Several weeks ago, we came home from running errands after dark, and when I went out to check on the chickens I discovered the coop door was closed and two of the chickens were still out in the yard. While Michelle went upstairs to bathe kids, I went out to hunt down the resident poultry.
As we've already learned, when it gets dark and the chickens can't make their way back into the coop, they take to the tree right behind the house. This night was no exception - there, way up above my head, a Rhode Island Red and a White Leghorn were roosting on a branch. Being from southern Utah, I tend to think anything below 60 degrees is life-threateningly cold, and I worried that if I left these chickens out they would be popsicles by morning (it actually WAS pretty cold that night). So I went out to the shed, grabbed a garden rake, and came back to coax the chickens down. The White Leghorn latched onto the handle pretty quickly, but as I lowered her down she jumped off and proceeded to run around the yard like a chicken with its head cut off (sorry, couldn't resist). After about 5 minutes, I finally managed to chase her down and get her in the coop. One down, one to go.
The other chicken just wouldn't latch onto the rake. And as I poked and prodded, she started flapping around and scraping against the sharp twigs. I was worried she'd skewer herself, so I threw the rake down in frustration and ran inside to get a bar stool. I climbed up to the branch where she was and finally managed to extricate her. After carrying her inside to check if she was bleeding (she wasn't), I took her back out and unceremoniously dumped her in the coop. Then it was back to the tree to pick up the stool.
At this point, it's pitch black in the back yard, and I'm huffing and stomping my feet a little in frustration at the night's events. I walked past the tree, took a step toward the stool . . . and out of nowhere something very hard and moving extremely quickly hit me in the face. For a split second, as the night flashed a bright white, I thought someone had hit me with a baseball bat. Of course, what actually happened was that I'd momentarily left reality and entered a Looney Tunes cartoon: I'd stepped on the teeth of the rake just right, and that handle popped up and clobbered me at nearly the speed of sound. It hit me in the corner of my left eye, breaking my glasses and knocking them clean off my face. I was laughing and crying and cursing all at the same time. It didn't bleed too bad, but left a black eye that lasted a week, leaving me plenty of opportunities to tell the story to friends and coworkers.
Oh, dear, dear Nate. I am so glad I relieved my bladder BEFORE reading this. Best laugh I've had in a while. Thank you for your selfless sacrifice of glasses and dignity for the sake of my enjoyment. What a guy.
ReplyDeleteCamden totally sympathizes with you. He says he'd have been so mad he'd have killed one of those chickens and eaten it right then.
ReplyDeleteAHHAHAHAHAHA! Sorry Nate, but thanks for sharing!
ReplyDeleteHa! That reminds me of the time you tore your pants climbing over the fence to the pool.
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