Unbagging the Cats 1

Unbagging the Cats 1

Friday, June 24, 2011

Snubbing My Personal Paparazzi

Perhaps I've mentioned my raving fan club. The members of which dart to my door the minute I step out onto the porch. No crowd control rope can keep them back. They rush me like free-range chickens anticipating bread crumbs and stale cereal.

That's because they are free-range chickens anticipating bread crumbs and stale cereal.

I know that I've spoiled them. Almost every time I go out, I toss them treats. If I only did this one out of every ten times, I imagine they would still be hooked, though I don't wish to delve too deeply into Skinner to cite the exact reward ratio required for proper operant conditioning. It's a happy accident. Sure, the poultry adoration is good for my ego. But I can live without it. In fact, I might be more comfortable without it.

Today I let Genius drive on the highway for thirty miles to visit civilization on his quest to acquire the latest telephone gadget on the market. Of course I went along. He's on a short leash. The Pony was left at home with my mom, because I don't trust him alone in the middle of nowhere all by himself. He is, after all, the boy who fell down thirteen stairs carrying a plate of corn dogs, and came to rest at the bottom with a fan of red fluid seeping out from under his skull. Okay, it was only ketchup, but it got my heart to pumping when viewed from above.

While Genius and I were gone, The Pony undertook his goat-herding duties from 8:30 to 9:30. Upon our return, my mom met me at the car. "I think your chickens have missed you. They've been coming over to the porch like they're looking for somebody." The feathered beasts came running. I hustled to the back door like a celebrity trying to give the paparazzi the slip.

Later in the day, I left the old homestead to pick up some food. That's when the gravity of the situation hit me. I exited the back door, but those crafty fowl came running to the breezeway by the garage. They stopped. They stared, heads tilted sideways, with their beady eyes. Normally I talk to them. But conversation was awkward. What was I supposed to say?

"Hey, chickens. Nothing for you today. I'm just going to town to pick up some of your dead, dismembered brethren, boiled in oil to a tasty crisp." No. That didn't seem right. So I didn't say anything at all. I snubbed my fine feathered friends.

Nothing comes between Val and her gas station chicken.


Linda O'Connell said...

Chick Woman, I can take anything you insinuate about me, but don't mention the lawn. Hubby said,
"I need to cut the grass before you take a picture."
I said, "PUHLEASE! no one will notice we don't have a goat." :)

Val Thevictorian said...

Whoopsie! You just drew my attention to the lawn!

I had not even noticed the grass. I was referring to the fact that you have FLOWERS. The goats have eaten my lilacs, and the red roses, and the entire yellow rosebush. They even eat the yucca blooms. I'm sure that if I had azaleas, they would have also been a tasty caprine snack.

So...now I'm off to look at the picture of your lawn, because you've piqued my interest.

Our lawn is not so much a lawn as it is a field with a house in the middle of it. And that's after goat feedings two hours a day, and weekly mowing with a tractor, a riding mower, a push mower, and weed-eating.

If you ever need a goat, we have a never-ending supply. The latest are the triplets born last month.

Sioux said...

I know someone who has these "special chickens" (Polish something-or-other is one kind she has). Their feathers are so silky, and she carries them around like they're human babies.

Gas station chicken? Sounds like something I can't live without. (Or perhaps I can't live WITH!)

Linda O'Connell said...

How fun it must be to live on your property. When my brother and I were preschoolers, my dad asked the neighbor if he wanted to buy a couple of little kids. The neighbor almost had a cow. Dad was talking about twin goats someone had offered him. Enjoy your day. In which area do you live? I have family in Hillsboro.

Val Thevictorian said...

The only chicken that let me carry it like a human baby was Yellow-Leg the big rooster after we came home one evening and caught Ann the shepherd using him as a chew-toy. I think he was in shock. He's fine now, though. He rules the roost.

The gas station chicken is mighty tasty. I won't tell you where I get it. More for me!


It's a regular barrel of laughs. At least your dad didn't catch your neighbor's pot-bellied pigs with a plan to make them into sausage. That's what I have to deal with here in paradise.

Nice try, but I am ANONYMOUS, you know. Let's just say I am about twice as far south of you as Hillsboro. But that's where all our students go for district music contest.

Josh Hoyt said...

This is great I love it. Thanks for the laugh:)

Val Thevictorian said...

I'm not a home-town celebrity. I'm a HOME celebrity.