Erica Lucke Dean

"Making the world a better place, one book at a time."

chickens, do dongs and a loaf of bread

Living in the country is a constant source of new knowledge. Not all of it necessary. For example, I didn’t need to know what happens when you get poison ivy on your “do dong”. I don’t even have one of those, so it was really unnecessary info for me…and honestly, if my husband has his “do dong” out while in the vicinity of poison ivy, we’ll likely have more trouble than a little rash.

I also found out that people in the country don’t believe in leashes, or fences, or keeping track of their dogs. And that really bothered me…until I ended up with the same problem. Not with my dogs, mind you. No, I can’t seem to keep my chickens in my own yard.

I kind of feel like I’m living in that movie, Chicken Run. Not because my chickens are forced to live like war prisoners, or anything. In fact, they’re quite spoiled, by chicken standards. But just the same, they seem to be on a constant quest for more freedom. And the freedom they seek resides in the neighbor’s yard.

But let’s face it. You can’t call a chicken, like a dog, and expect it to come running, right? I mean, my dogs come running for a treat, but a chicken? That’s crazy talk.

Or is it?

As it turns out, I’ve taught my chickens to speak English. Or rather, to understand English, because chickens can’t talk. I don’t think. That would be a totally different blog, for a different day. No, my chickens understand English.

Just the other day, the entire flock was over a football field away, in the pasture across from ours, when I yelled out, “Who wants bread?”

It was like a zombie movie. Once I had the word, bread, out of my mouth, their little heads turned in my direction like they got a whiff of fresh brains. So I yelled again. “Bread?”

Like a pack of wild dogs spying an injured deer, my chickens started running. Their little wings flapping madly as they hauled ass across the field. I quickly ran to the grab a few slices and met them on the back porch where I tossed bite sized pieces at them before they pecked off my fingers.

Apparently, bread is like crack to chickens. Their own personal brand of crack, in fact.

I know how they feel. I can hardly pass up a nice hot loaf of french bread with whipped butter. Who knows, maybe I was a chicken in a past life.

Until the next time…I’ll be trying to catch those chickens on video.

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