Chicken Catcher

In the Northern Latitudes, in the early days of rail travel, there was a shovel-like affair attached to the front of the engine called a cow-catcher.  It is this principle that I employ in persuading everyone that indeed, it is time to roost.  

Every so often the AA's decided to stay up late.  I have tried to find a correspondence between astrological cycles and this behaviour; no dice.  It might be meteorological.  I notice their conversations change with the barometer.

So, back to the chicken catching, I have a piece of the fence that I wrap around myself like an apron or long skirt of dubious couture to prevent more bruising of the type Buck might be in the mood to inflict if he sees no impediment to doing so. 

 If I turn the apron around, so that from the hen's side it's convex, it appears to them that they will be scooped up like the actors in Soylent Green, and they hurry up the ramp.

Buck is the only one I have to push along.  He side-steps, he trips over the obstacles in back of him that he cannot see. He protests.  He tries to get a piece of me.  

Once in, I hear him grumbling to his ladies, and their responses of sympathy ....rough translation: "Yes, dear.....".

I suspect they listen to his grievances only partially, knowing that it is politic to pretend to care about the tyrant's wounded ego, knowing when he has made his point, he will move on to other things.  "Yes, dear..."  

I know women like that.