‘Out of Kilter’
“The Pecking Order” by Ken Carpenter.
September 12, 2010
Sometimes the world doesn’t make any sense. A guy works hard almost every day of his life and the, right out of the blue, he is forced to face the ultimate indignity. He is lower on the totem pole of life than a bunch of stupid chickens.
Ours have decided that not only are they the boss of me, but that I am such a boob they must monitor and direct me to keep me from fouling things up. it is a disgrace, I tell you.
They obviously don’t realize that they are tasty. Unless, as I suspect, they are on the rubbery side. Rubbery as in, “I am the boss of the world and if I don’t watch my mouth, I will bounce like a soccer ball off the coop wall!”
Don’t get me wrong, I like our chickens just fine. Especially when I am dining on an omelet. My wife, Joy is the one who named them and gave them their superiority complex.
Elvira, Autumn, Buffy, Lucille, Kelly and the other eight henpeckers bring new meaning to the term, “ruling the roost.” Technically this would mean taking charge of the ‘sun porch’, a so-called temporary structure that lasted two years. It kept the hens warm and dry when they needed a break between the coop and the exercise yard but was, quite simply, a monstrosity.
I was not ordered to do this remodel, but there are times that you realize it is time to do the right thing. Plus, a few brownie points once in a while never hurt. Especially when the brownie knows where you sleep.
The project area was only 8′ x 8′ and was not that tough to take apart. The problem was the chickens had free run of the grounds when it came down. No problem, I though, they’ll just run around and catch bugs. Yeah right.
From the start, the hens seemed to take turns eyeballing and critiquing my progress in the process. The rest of them alternated between pooping on my tools and materials and trying to trip me every time I turned around.
Elvira, the smallest, bravest and bossiest of the hens, took great pleasure in making sure I performed my duties in the proper manner. I’m not sure what the proper manner was, but she once fluttered up to eye level with me on my step ladder, cocked her head and cussed me out good.
I don’t know how she knew that I had just screwed up a measurement. I guess she has ESD (Eternally Skeptical Disposition). Stew would be too good for her.
As Joy was pleased to point out, I may be the first man in history to have a chick for a straw boss.
Of the thirteen hens, each one took numerous shifts overseeing the shiftless builder. by the time their new condo was complete, I am ashamed to admit that I started to assume the identity of a five foot five inch chicken.
My head bobbed as I walked, I developed a tendency to flap my arms when frustrated and I became more beady-eyed than ever. once, though I have mostly burned it from my memory banks, I think I snapped a fly right out of the air with my beakish lips.
So now, as I fight the urge to lay an egg, I am going to put away my tools and go inside to roost.
I mean nap. Really, nap is what I mean. Right after I snack on a bowl of grains.