It strikes me that it’s been a little serious around here on Bud’s Blog for a while, maybe even a little grumpy. Even some of my Monday Smiles have been of the I-don’t-feel-like-smiling-but-here’s-something-that-makes-me-smile variety. My Inner Curmudgeon, that persona who has been responsible for bringing humor (of a cantankerous sort) to my blog since 2009 seems to be on vacation. So, I thought I’d tell a grandkid story today just to brighten the place up. Whats more fun than a grandkid story … unless it’s a grandkid story with poultry.
A few weeks ago, shortly before my daughter and three grandkids were scheduled to arrive at our California house for a visit, Muri called me to the patio door. There’s a chicken in our back yard, she said. Sure enough a very healthy looking black chicken was feeding under our birdfeeder. I had heard the sound of clucking several times coming from down the street, so I assumed this was an escapee. Interestingly, Anaheim has a Backyard Chicken Law that allows a certain number of chickens per square foot in residential neighborhoods. No roosters, however. We didn’t see our neighbor around, so the chicken remained under the bushes, coming out to eat when the bluejays spilled seed from the feeder … a regular occurrence.
When the grandkids arrived, we told them to watch for the chicken and right on cue, it made an appearance. Savannah decided to name it Robert. Since we have a female cat named Elvis, we were OK with the misgendered name. The kids ran to the window every time Robert showed up and I gave them some birdseed so that they could feed him … er, her. In the meantime, we learned that it was Carlos, two doors away, who had the chickens. I’m going to catch him and take him home, my daughter Amy said, and sure enough, she went out and grabbed him while the kids were feeding him. She carried him, squawking and flapping (Robert, not Amy) to the neighbor’s front door. Carlos’ reaction was, Oh, there’s my chicken.
The next morning, when the kids got up, I heard them yell, Robert’s back and, sure enough, there she was. This time Carlos came by and coaxed her out with some seed. It turns out Robert’s real name was Ethyl and Carlos told her, If you run away again, you’re going to be dinner, Ethyl. Ethyl hasn’t been back since. I’m hoping Carlos was able to find Ethyl’s escape route in the coop or talks some sense into his wandering chicken. Because my grandkids would be very unhappy if Robert ended up as Sunday night dinner.