Lookout Mountain, Chattanooga

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Just us chickens

I’m stuck on chickens right now. KFC is my favorite fast food restaurant—much to my chagrin when it comes to cholesterol level—and I’ve been eating egg salad on toast just about every day for 18 months. But what really strikes my fancy is their entertainment value.

I’m telling you, I feel pretty ducky when I go to bed with the chickens, probably because I’m no longer a spring chicken. I tend not to run around the next day like a chicken with its head cut off. Most people think I’m a good egg with a sunny-side-up personality, but others might tell themselves, “You have to take the feet with the feathers.”

During the day, I’m often home alone so, generally speaking, there’s nobody here but us chickens. I’m trying to build a nest egg, but I’m barely scratching out a living. I’m a mother hen when it comes to my chicks, and I’d get madder than a wet hen if someone crossed them. You’d hear me squawk, for sure.

I’m neither a dumb cluck nor a bird brain. Sometimes I'm a chicken; but, if I make up my mind to do something, I don’t chicken out easily.

I hope I haven’t laid an egg with this blog entry.

By the way, I will write for chicken feed.


  1. So.
    I read this as I sit waiting in a vet's waiting room in Birmingham so I feel more like I am going to the dogs. And since I am here due to a downturn in my dog's healing, we are sitting in the dog house.

    All I could think of to add to your tribute to chickens was that you may have a clear case of the egg coming before the chickens. Also, given the recent holiday, that 'tis better to be in the hen house than hanging with the bats in your own belfry.

    Obviously you are having fun down on the farm.
    See you Sunday.

  2. Bats in the belfry? I resemble that remark.

    You're not the only one in the doghouse. Just where will I see you on Sunday?!