|I can’t tell if she’s breathing, guys!, says
Jager. Hang in there, Food Lady! I know!
I’ll give her mouth to mouth.
I don’t know!, I moan. My raspy voice comes from beneath the dog paw decorated throw blanket. I haven’t had the flu in so long that I thought I didn’t need the shot anymore.
You realize that doesn’t make sense, right? he says.
Yeah, I know. They even extended the flu shot dates at work, I say. I’m an idiot.
Which is only partially true. They did extend the available dates at work and I am indeed an idiot. The real reason? It was just too far to walk to get to the Health Center.
I’m a lazy kind of idiot. That, my friends, is the whole truth.
And today I’m bundled under the covers, sniffling and achy all over. Trying so hard not to cough, because dang it, it hurts too much. There’s a faint little voice in my head telling me I better cough, and do it with passion, because otherwise I’ll end up with pneumonia.
I know this and yet here I sit with a bag of Ricola in easy reach.
I’m nuthin’ if not consistent in my self destructive tendencies.
And so on this Story Sunday, I’m giving myself a bit of a reprieve on story telling. Instead we bring you an encore presentation of a favorite story of the past. This one is in recognition of the mighty Micron, who has been checking on me over the last three icky days.
I want to believe his concern is for my health and well-being and doesn’t have anything to do with his next meal. But hey, he’s a comfort just being here, so I’m good with it either way.
So here’s a post originally shared in April 2012. I had one whole person tell me this was her favorite story. Well, her mom liked it too. And that’s good enuf for me.
A Tale of Two Chickens
I don’t really like chickens. We had different genres of walking poultry meat about the farm when I was a tender youth. The farm goose was a particular jerk as these fellas are wont to be. But the worst was the chicken coop. The guano room of doom.
All the hens were white and were perfect doppelgangers of each other. Some rather nastier in spirit than their sisters, however. It was a crap shoot, so to speak, to collect eggs. Reach under a plump hen for an egg and you may come back with skin and delicate hand bones intact. But the next hen could be the one that goes all medieval about your arm. You just never knew.
So I really don’t like chickens. They’re icky and smelly and mean. I can’t even abide the taste of these things. I do apologize to anyone who has a meaningful relationship with chickens. I mean no offense. I don’t want to be all up in your business, but you might be rethinking your friend base.
So when I redecorated the kitchen, I adopted a rooster theme. What deep recesses of my brain brought me to surround myself with chicken based artsy fartsy stock? I can’t explain it.
But I chicken theme it, I did.
So when the grocery had rooster dish towels on clearance last week, I bought a couple to go with my Hannibel Lector inspired decor.
The mighty Micron is an intuitive dog. He reads people and their moods to a level that is sometimes heart-warming and other times spooky.
He knows about the chickens.
To show his unconditional love, he brought me one of the rooster dish towels.
That’s one down!, he says, wagging his plume tail.
Yep, that dog’s got my back.