I Would Have Killed Him

I have a fear of birds. Irrational, maybe, but it is a serious fear. It dates back to my childhood when my aunt and uncle had a pet bird who decided to make a nest out of my hair one day. I was traumatized (no hard feelings, Jane and Bob). I hate birds. All birds. Including chickens. Needless to say I was none too pleased when Jody decided to go into the "chicken business" along with the cattle business. The idea is to sell organic eggs, which he assures me will pay for our boys to go to college. And while I love the idea of paying for their education, I made it very clear from the beginning that I would have NOTHING to do with the chickens. I would not be collecting eggs or tending to the chicken coop. Because a chicken coop to me would be like entering the world's scariest haunted house for most folks. Just riding by the thing literally makes me shiver. And shake in my flip flops.

I hate riding the gator to the barn because I swear those stinkin' chickens hide and then run out at full speed at me when I pass by. I hate them, every single one of them, whether they fund my kid's education or not. So last week when Jody called me before seven to tell me I had to go let his chickens out because he had forgotten, I immediately refused. I may have even said "there was no way in @#!$" I was doing it. An hour passed and he called me again, insisting that I let the chickens out,"Ang, you have to. They'll die if you don't let them out. I promise you they don't even run out when you open the door. They take their time coming out. They are really slow. You will already be gone up the path before the first one even comes out." I believed him and I gave in, agreeing to do my part for my kid's college fund by letting the chickens out.

I was leaving for a doctor's appointment a few minutes later and G-Ma came in to watch the boys. I told her I was going to run down to the barn on the gator and let the chickens out. She gave me a strange look and said,"You're going to let them out." "Yeah, Jody told me how slow they are to come out of the coop and that I'd be long gone before the first one stepped out." She grinned, shook her head and said, "Jody, Jody, Jody." I knew at that moment that I had been lied to. She proceeded to tell me that she would let the chickens out for me because they run out in a fury, flying and flapping their wings. She knows I'm terrified and she single handily saved my life in that moment. Jody called me shortly after I left to see if I had been to the coop yet. I nicely told him that his Mom had saved me and told me how those birds come out of there. He dies laughing, says something about a chicken stampede and feathers flying everywhere. I was very unamused.

A few days later Jody drove me down to the coop to show me how the chickens react when they are let out. Let's just say, I would have died. Dead. Right there. I would have dropped dead in front of an old green chicken coop. And been trampled over by forty-six chickens. Forty-six. When he opened that door, a group of about fifteen were obviously waiting to see daylight because they sprinted like Flo Jo out of there, heads bobbing as they kicked up a cloud of dust. And then the next wave flew out. Flew. Like parakeets. Not like chickens. Like flippin' parakeets breaking out of a pet store. So after being trampled I would have been in the direct path of the remaining chicken as they flew, flapping wings and feathers flying, out of the coop. Yes, I would have died. Of heart failure or a stroke. But had I miraculously survived, I would have killed him. Especially after he mocked the chickens preparing to run out of the coop, showing how they stretch and adjust their sweatbands in preparation for their Olympic-style sprint out the door. Yes, I would have killed him. He's lucky. Very lucky.