One of the Facebook posts told of how Buck took a scunner to my orange handbag, and a response suggested that he was an informed fashion critic. This may be the case but why wait for the brightly colored bags? It's not as though I dress well in the first place.
First I learned that you don't go wandering around chicken areas in open-toed shoes with painted toenails. Then I found out that red shoes are nearly as unwelcome. The day I left the house carrying my orange bag made of recycled Vietnamese shipping bags that I'd better stock up on more conservative accessories as well.
At first, I thought Buck was just expressing his usual displeasure as something being different in the yard, in this case other life forms moving around in his field of vision, until I realized his focus was unusually intent, retributive and aimed at my bag. I threw the bag into the bushes. He went after it, pecked it a couple of times to make certain it was dead, shook himself, turned on a scaly heel and marched off grumbling 'Gahworrah, worrah, brrr!" He turned to give me one last "So there!" crow.
After I retrieved my bag from the bushes and drove away, it occurred to me that Buck may have PTSD when it comes to hot colors. When I got him as a rescue chicken, he was delivered to me trussed up and in a red net bag. Long ago in California I jumped out of a moving car to get away from a creep, and then walked over the Oakland Bay Bridge. I was nervous about bridges for years, even though the bridge had done nothing to me. Maybe Buck needs to only have green towels thrown over him from now on.
It can sometimes require planning to leave the house.
I might have been gone for 40 minutes and I came home to no chickens. Then I heard the sounds of people having a discussion in my dining room. There they were, watching me with one eye, looking for nice places to roost with the other. I did a quick scan of the floor for chicken turds, which are sticky. Buck decided that close quarters were no trouble for him, puffed his hackles out and charged. I'm a little slow, but after a couple of months I'm generally not far from a long handled object or a large floppy one, so I grabbed the tablecloth and threw it over him catching him in mid-air. He was still pissed. His mouth was open, tongue out and breathing like Darth Vader. I tickled his neck, stroked his chest and waited. He went limpish and calmish, so I let him loose, outside. The girls ran after him calling "Buck?"
First I learned that you don't go wandering around chicken areas in open-toed shoes with painted toenails. Then I found out that red shoes are nearly as unwelcome. The day I left the house carrying my orange bag made of recycled Vietnamese shipping bags that I'd better stock up on more conservative accessories as well.
At first, I thought Buck was just expressing his usual displeasure as something being different in the yard, in this case other life forms moving around in his field of vision, until I realized his focus was unusually intent, retributive and aimed at my bag. I threw the bag into the bushes. He went after it, pecked it a couple of times to make certain it was dead, shook himself, turned on a scaly heel and marched off grumbling 'Gahworrah, worrah, brrr!" He turned to give me one last "So there!" crow.
After I retrieved my bag from the bushes and drove away, it occurred to me that Buck may have PTSD when it comes to hot colors. When I got him as a rescue chicken, he was delivered to me trussed up and in a red net bag. Long ago in California I jumped out of a moving car to get away from a creep, and then walked over the Oakland Bay Bridge. I was nervous about bridges for years, even though the bridge had done nothing to me. Maybe Buck needs to only have green towels thrown over him from now on.
It can sometimes require planning to leave the house.
I might have been gone for 40 minutes and I came home to no chickens. Then I heard the sounds of people having a discussion in my dining room. There they were, watching me with one eye, looking for nice places to roost with the other. I did a quick scan of the floor for chicken turds, which are sticky. Buck decided that close quarters were no trouble for him, puffed his hackles out and charged. I'm a little slow, but after a couple of months I'm generally not far from a long handled object or a large floppy one, so I grabbed the tablecloth and threw it over him catching him in mid-air. He was still pissed. His mouth was open, tongue out and breathing like Darth Vader. I tickled his neck, stroked his chest and waited. He went limpish and calmish, so I let him loose, outside. The girls ran after him calling "Buck?"
I love your blog please keep writing.
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