Friday - Moaning

Here is the Rest of the Chicken Story.

I raced down to the store as fast as I could, because I knew that the chicks wouldn't last, what with Easter Sunday coming up and all. I wanted to rescue at least a few chicks from being manhandled by three-year-olds and then heartlessly cast aside when they wore the fuzz off.

When I saw that they were entirely the wrong chickens, I panicked. I knew I couldn't leave with nothing, having seen the little fuzzbutts, but I didn't know till the words came out that I was buying four yellow ones and three black ones. As soon as I said it, the chicken man scooped them out and dropped them into my box, and I became a chicken mother. I grabbed a few supplies, paid for everything, and went out to my truck. Then things went askew.

I opened the passenger door and gently wedged the chick box into the space between the seat and the dashboard, put the supplies on the seat, and tossed my keys across to the driver's seat. Then I shut the door and walked around to get in. How silly, I thought to myself, this door is still locked; I have to open the passenger door and get my keys.

Uh-oh.

The passenger door, of course, was locked. So here I was, keys and chicks locked inside the dang truck.

Think, think, think! Should I break a window, or . . . Aha! I will crawl in the camper and open the back window. Nice try, it's locked too. I race back into the store and ask for "either a razor blade to slash my wrists or something to break my truck window with." A nice employee who was somewhat calmer than I suggested I call the auto club instead. Oh! Good idea!

I couldn't get my cell phone to work, of course. That is the rule of Panic Situations. None of your routine daily tools work in a Panic Situation. The helpful employee offers her phone. By now I was ready to adopt her or propose marriage. I called AAA and was assured that someone would be along within 15-30 minutes to open my door.

Thirty minutes is a long damn time when you are pacing a hole in a parking lot. But thirty minutes passed and no someone arrived. I called again, now the someone would be there within seven minutes. I put my ear to the truck window, listening for peeps from the chicks that I assumed were now dead in their little box, dead from heartbreak at being abandoned, if nothing else (like being cooked in the heat). And as I often say, patience is a virtue, but not one of mine.

One more minute, and there he was, my rescuer! With his car burglary tool he had my door open in less than a minute. I said, "Hey, I need one of those tools!" and he said "Where would you keep it?" Good point. Although since I make my own purses, I suppose I could customize one to hold a 2-foot long steel bar.

The chicks were still peeping. In fact, they peeped their dang heads off all the way home. Thirty minutes of "HEY! We're hungry in here! HEY! We're a little chilly, where's the heat? HEY, how about some water! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY!"

A day later, the seven little fuzzbutts are secure in their washtub, eating like there is no tomorrow, and growing by the minute. You will be assaulted with many chicken photos in the coming weeks. You will beg for no more chicken photos, but your pleas will fall on deaf ears.