It’s that time of year again, the crisp autumn air, the beer, the lederhosen, and the Chicken Dance – all staples of America’s version of Munich’s famous Oktoberfest. (My preference: dem Brezels, dem Bundhosen – ooh la la! – und das Fliegerlied)
With all the Oktoberfesting going on (hush up, it is TOO a verb!) I thought perhaps the other night I had achieved a maximum overdose of the Chicken Dance.
I was out battling the English (ivy, that is), when I experienced what
I perceived to be auditory hallucinations – the trilling of tiny
humans, calling “Hey, you want to see my chicken? Look at my chicken! HEY, LOOK AT MY CHICKEN!”
I froze in frightened confusion, certain that the trauma of dealing with my own rabid chicken
was coming home to roost.
I vigorously slapped the mutant mosquitoes away from my ears, and yet, the chorus continued.
“Turn around and LOOK AT MY CHICKEN!!!”
Slowly I turned, and, instead of the Ghost of Octoberfests Past, found the neighbor
children pressed up against the fence, standing neatly in a row, proudly clutching … a … CHICKEN!
I blinked.
I blinked again.
I rubbed the ivy debris from my face and blinked again. Nope, there was still a bigass chicken sitting on top of the fence, proudly propped up by a horde of small children.
Uhm … okay. Were I still back on the ranch, the sighting of a chicken would not be nearly so exciting and note-worthy. However, in our little corner of suburbia, backyard chickens are verboten, in spite of numerous sustainability initiatives.
Pleased that they finally had my undivided attention, the chorus of tiny humans continued to sing.
“Isn’t she nice? Her name is Ariana! She can FLY. Do you want to pet my chicken?”
They had her tied with a leash on one leg and offered her up to be
admired. I, of course, held and admired her. She is a pretty thing (Rhode Island Red, as near as I can tell), and very well
behaved. Alas, no signs of a chicken coop, so I told them to ask their parents if they want me to build Ariana
a chicken house to help protect her from less-than tolerant eyes and hungry neighborhood wildlife.
Cat Daddy’s confused, and keeps asking me “Why is there a stealth chicken living next door?” And “Are you really going to build a chicken safe house? What’s next, the Poultry Protection Program?”
Personally, I’m just happy Ariana isn’t a rooster.
As far as Newt? We haven’t told him yet, lest he decide to invite himself over to the neighbor’s house for “dinner.”