There I was. Just relaxing in my chair after a long day of doing things, being at places, seeing specific people, when Mrs. Chicken approaches me without saying a word.
I look up at her and I smile, thinking about how fortunate I am to have found such a wonderful life partner. Someone who seemed to suffer the same affliction (in some people’s eyes) as I do: that of being in so much awareness of self. In total control of the extenuating circumstance of everyday life. To see things before they might happen. To be aware of what could be as opposed to what might be, and willing to share it with others. What some might call “a firm grasp of the obvious.”
I study her beauty and grace as she steps even closer. “Oh to be so lucky,” I mumble to myself. Then suddenly, she drops this book in my lap. Her slight smile quickly changes to a resting bitch face.
I look bewildered at the title of this surprise lofted onto me: Raising Chickens. I am at a loss. After the dozens of broods Mrs. Chicken and I have shepherded through our earlier years of life are now grown and supplying the world with more of the same, why would she present this to me, in such a manner?
“What’s this?” I exclaim.
She stared at me in disbelief and abruptly turned and walked away.
I continued to watch her. I said, in an inappropriate way, “I love to watch you walk away, it’s such a very nice sight.”
With that, she paused and performed a hand gesture I can’t explain in this blog for fear of censorship.
I turned back to the book cover. What could it mean? I just don’t know. Was she offering a critique of our past broods, or was she telling me something about a pending event? And where were my spidey-senses about all this — being aware of everything and anticipating it before it happens?