WHY THE CHICKENS CROSSED THE ROAD CONTINUED:

Once built the kids painted the walls white. The finished product looks so much like a bus stop, I half expected to see bystanders out there come morning.
At first the chickens stayed relatively close to their coop, but then their scope of existence broadened to my concrete porch. When I stepped out in my bare feet to stop them from crowding closer a white gushy substance seeped through my toes.
This is when I named all twelve birds, “Damn Chickens.”
“Shoo. Get!” I yelled, waving my arms in the air so the birds would move back onto the grass or off to the garden where the bugs lived. But they never stayed. I felt like a security guard, patrolling rowdy teenagers at the local mall. How did I get this job?
My frustration only intensified when half the feathered family snuck in through the front door. I left it opened for fresh air and then walked down to the mailbox, hoping to absorb some vitamin D into my skin to help balance my depression. When I got back and stepped into the kitchen, I saw chickens! In my kitchen!
I screeched like a smoke alarm. This scattered the birds around the bar that sat in the middle of the room. Half to the left and half to the right. This forced more sirens out of my mouth, “Damn chickens, not on my kitchen floor!”
What they left on the floor was nothing compared to what they left in my mind. To this day, I still accidentally call the kitchen ‘the chicken.’
Only a few more steps and they would have been on my carpet! Imagine what would have come out of my mouth if they’d left their gushy remains there.
I thought of calling in reinforcements, but I didn’t dare leave them to find the phone.
Desperate, I used my legs as arms. Waving all of my limbs wildly, helped corral them out the side door into the garage. I won’t mention that it took me fifteen minutes to do this and that I was hoarse by the time it was all over. If the neighbors saw me through the window they’d say I threw the best tantrum they’d ever seen.
I almost left my own deposit from the terrible experience.
When my husband came home with a grin from ear to ear saying, “Have you noticed we don’t have as many bugs in the garden this year,” I wanted to throw him out in the coop, he could perch out there for a while.
How could he have so much exhilaration of being an owner to these pooping, wandering, eggless invaders?
The anticipation of fresh eggs was the only thing carrying me on. The health benefits were to be phenomenal. I kept my mouth shut to avoid a fight with my husband over these pesky pests, besides by the end of the day I’d expended all my energy. At times, I’d wished I could strap a leash around each chicken’s neck and tie them to a tree.
The longer we owned the fowl the further they roamed. My husband loved knowing they were “free range chickens.” It should be more like, “Game over, too many fouls.”
They started drifting to the neighbor’s yard. Did bugs taste that much better over the other side of the fence? Oh wait–they weren’t eating the bugs. They were eating everything but the bugs; the zucchini, the lilies, and hosta’s. They scratched up the bark displacing the drip edge so the plants in the flower beds starved and died.
Our grass was just as green as theirs!
This penalty of crossing the boundaries forced me out of the house into a perpetual chase. I was embarrassed in having to correct my birds for violating the neighbors’ property. 
All of this occurred while my husband sat at work, dreaming about our self-reliance. We owned chicken’s that were yet to lay eggs!
I fed them food just so they can poop on my porch. Oh and on the neighbor’s too. In fact, one neighbor informed me what the other neighbor said about these unruly creatures.
“Don’t tell the Hansens that their chickens did this but, one night last week we brought company out to sit on the porch, you know to enjoy the good weather. And we found chicken poop on our patio table. Can you believe that? We had to take the food we’d brought out back into the house so we could clean up the white mess. How do they let them wander like they do?”
Mortified, I hid my head in shame; hence the phobias of wandering, free range chickens.
My husband didn’t understand my permanently frazzled state. Heck, I dreamt of chasing chickens at night.
Needless to say, it was a touchy subject. In fact, one day I stood out on the front porch in my pajamas to watch my son walk to the bus stop. I waved at him as he met up with the neighbors.
One of the neighbor’s kids yelled in a sassy voice, “Your CHICKENS are across the road.”
I snapped back, “SO!” Like I belonged in elementary school with these children.
Before I knew it the chickens crossed the road into the neighbor’s yard.
“Damn chickens.”
The chase was on, again. This time in my jammies.
Could it get any more humiliating?
I grabbed a broken branch that lay on the grass and swung it like a magic wand. This only rushed the chickens back into my yard and yet I’d hoped it would make the chickens magically disappear. I would happily buy eggs at the grocery store.
When I complained to a friend about my morning pursuit, their response was, “Why’d the chickens cross the road?” Laughing, they replied to their own question, “To get away from the crazy lady.”
I said sadly, “Why can’t the answer be, ‘To get run over and finally put me out of my misery!’”
Why the chickens crossed the road
The garage door closed before I noticed the glowing box in the corner. “No, it can’t be.”
I peered past the warming light at a chirping mass of yellow. The chicks crowded under the protection of the heat as I stared.
One chick broke free and chirped in my direction. A smile cracked through my tight lips, why are baby things so adorable? It’s like the enticing cheese that sits on top of the mouse trap.
In came my son. “Aren’t they cute?”
All I could ask in my stunned state was, “How many are there?”
“Twelve.”
My husband had briefly mentioned he wanted some chickens but he said it so causal, I’d mistaken it for a pipe dream, something like: “Yeah, I would love some chickens.”
Well, I would love a new washer and dryer, and to knock out the laundry room wall to expand it for a mud room.
But now, sitting in my garage were living creatures that needed care. Not four or six, but twelve!
Later my husband explained, “I was planning on a few casualties.”
I murmured as I watched my excited child cup the yellow bundle next to his chest. “I guess they’re kinda sweet.” I said.
Before long, the cute chirping creatures were freed outside to roam. Satisfaction oozed from every pore of my husband’s body as he watched them wander the yard, as if he lived in the time when man and beast coexisted peacefully.
I didn’t share in this gratification, if I sported feathers, like my feathered friends, they’d be in a consent ruffle.
Being a professional carpenter, my husband crafted a deluxe coop that nestled on the hillside backing our property. He reused materials from past jobs, like a closet rod for them to perch on while they looked out the wired window. He also embellished the roof in a bright red metal. Snow and rain slid off the surface like the drool from a teething toddler.
            Once built the kids painted the walls white. The finished product looks so much like a bus stop, I half expected to see bystanders out there come morning.
At first the chickens stayed relatively close to their coop, but then their scope of existence broadened to my concrete porch. When I stepped out in my bare feet to stop them from crowding closer a white gushy substance seeped through my toes.
This is when I named all twelve birds, “Damn Chickens.”
“Shoo. Get!” I yelled, waving my arms in the air so the birds would move back onto the grass or off to the garden where the bugs lived. But they never stayed. I felt like a security guard, patrolling rowdy teenagers at the local mall. How did I get this job?
My frustration only intensified when half the feathered family snuck in through the front door. I left it opened for fresh air and then walked down to the mailbox, hoping to absorb some vitamin D into my skin to help balance my depression. When I got back and stepped into the kitchen, I saw chickens! In my kitchen!
I screeched like a smoke alarm. This scattered the birds around the bar that sat in the middle of the room. Half to the left and half to the right. This forced more sirens out of my mouth, “Damn chickens, not on my kitchen floor!”
What they left on the floor was nothing compared to what they left in my mind. To this day, I still accidentally call the kitchen ‘the chicken.’
Only a few more steps and they would have been on my carpet! Imagine what would have come out of my mouth if they’d left their gushy remains there.
I thought of calling in reinforcements, but I didn’t dare leave them to find the phone.
Desperate, I used my legs as arms. Waving all of my limbs wildly, helped corral them out the side door into the garage. I won’t mention that it took me fifteen minutes to do this and that I was hoarse by the time it was all over. If the neighbors saw me through the window they’d say I threw the best tantrum they’d ever seen.
I almost left my own deposit from the terrible experience.
When my husband came home with a grin from ear to ear saying, “Have you noticed we don’t have as many bugs in the garden this year,” I wanted to throw him out in the coop, he could perch out there for a while.
How could he have so much exhilaration of being an owner to these pooping, wandering, eggless invaders?
The anticipation of fresh eggs was the only thing carrying me on. The health benefits were to be phenomenal. I kept my mouth shut to avoid a fight with my husband over these pesky pests, besides by the end of the day I’d expended all my energy. At times, I’d wished I could strap a leash around each chicken’s neck and tie them to a tree.
The longer we owned the fowl the further they roamed. My husband loved knowing they were “free range chickens.” It should be more like, “Game over, too many fouls.”
They started drifting to the neighbor’s yard. Did bugs taste that much better over the other side of the fence? Oh wait–they weren’t eating the bugs. They were eating everything but the bugs; the zucchini, the lilies, and hosta’s. They scratched up the bark displacing the drip edge so the plants in the flower beds starved and died.
Our grass was just as green as theirs!
This penalty of crossing the boundaries forced me out of the house into a perpetual chase. I was embarrassed in having to correct my birds for violating the neighbors’ property. 
All of this occurred while my husband sat at work, dreaming about our self-reliance. We owned chicken’s that were yet to lay eggs!
I fed them food just so they can poop on my porch. Oh and on the neighbor’s too. In fact, one neighbor informed me what the other neighbor said about these unruly creatures.
“Don’t tell the Hansens that their chickens did this but, one night last week we brought company out to sit on the porch, you know to enjoy the good weather. And we found chicken poop on our patio table. Can you believe that? We had to take the food we’d brought out back into the house so we could clean up the white mess. How do they let them wander like they do?”
Mortified, I hid my head in shame; hence the phobias of wandering, free range chickens.
My husband didn’t understand my permanently frazzled state. Heck, I dreamt of chasing chickens at night.
Needless to say, it was a touchy subject. In fact, one day I stood out on the front porch in my pajamas to watch my son walk to the bus stop. I waved at him as he met up with the neighbors.
One of the neighbor’s kids yelled in a sassy voice, “Your CHICKENS are across the road.”
I snapped back, “SO!” Like I belonged in elementary school with these children.
Before I knew it the chickens crossed the road into the neighbor’s yard.
“Damn chickens.”
The chase was on, again. This time in my jammies.
Could it get any more humiliating?
I grabbed a broken branch that lay on the grass and swung it like a magic wand. This only rushed the chickens back into my yard and yet I’d hoped it would make the chickens magically disappear. I would happily buy eggs at the grocery store.
When I complained to a friend about my morning pursuit, their response was, “Why’d the chickens cross the road?” Laughing, they replied to their own question, “To get away from the crazy lady.”
I said sadly, “Why can’t the answer be, ‘To get run over and finally put me out of my misery!’”