Chickens on the Loose!

Help!  We're being overrun by chickens.  Yes, chickens!  There are four of them parading across our front yard, pecking and pooping as if they own the place.

I grab the yellow-handled broom and dash out the door like a mad woman, raising it over my head shouting, "Shoo, Shoo, you trespassing chickens!"  "Cluck, Cluck, Cluck Squawk, Cluck, Cluck Cluck, Squawk!" they reply in chicken language, which fortunately for my sensitive nature, I don't understand.  With feathers flying, they scatter in every direction,  as if the sky has just fallen smack on their heads, leaving them totally discombobulated.  The white one, with a poofy-feathered coiffure topped by a bright red comb, speeds towards the neighbor's fence, as the rest of the gang hurries to catch up.  They reach the gaping barbed wire right before the monster (me) sweeps them back into their own territory.

This scene took place a few weeks ago, when the poultry gang first set chicken feet on our property.  Since then I've mellowed.  "What's the harm?" I ask myself.  They're just out for a good time, tired of being cooped up in the same yard day after day. I've even started spying on them.

They sneak through the fence mid-morning, tentatively edging their way across our grass, cocking heads left and right, scanning for the woman with the broom.

Unable to see my face in the kitchen window, they venture further towards the house, led by their red-combed leader, whom I've named Lucy. Granted, Lucy is probably a rooster with the striking redness atop his head, but I still like to think of him as a her. . . the "I Love Lucy" of chickens.  With growing confidence, she scurries across the driveway into my flowerbeds, all the while glancing over her shoulder, ordering Ethel, Fred, and Ricky to hurry up.

Leaving "the boys," she and Ethel retreat to the birdbath for a gossip session .  The lyrics, "Pick-a-little, Talk-a-little,  Pick-a-little, Talk-a-little,  Cheep-Cheep-Cheep, Talk-a-lot, Pick-a-little more" from "The Music Man," come to mind and make me giggle.

I can't resist trying to take a few pictures and slowly crack the front door.  Inching my way across the porch, I hide behind a column, waiting to see if I've been noticed.  So far, so good.  One foot at a time, I creep down the steps, freeze on the sidewalk, zoom in on the unsuspecting friends, and press the button. Zeroing in on the camera's clicks, Lucy looks around, strikes a runway pose, then sounds the alarm.

                                

Off they run, on what looks like toothpick legs, over rocks, through piles of brown leaves, between trunks of oak trees, around the swimming pool, across the fire pit and safely to the fence.

They'll be back, and I'll be waiting for my morning entertainment, tea cup in hand, for the next episode of "I Love Lucy Chicken."