There are chickens in my garage.
There are six of them. They are young. And they are in a cardboard box.
My wife Staci put them there. I do not know what she is doing. I fear it’s some strange, middle-age thing. I will have to buy a medical book and see if women who turn forty start collecting chickens in their garage.
All I know right now is this: It is disorienting to be confronted by live chickens when you leave the house in the morning. Granted, they are in a box and they are small. But I know they are watching me.
And it’s a bad sign.
A bad sign because when we first got married, there was romance in our lives. Now there is livestock in our garage.
I do not want to open the garage door tomorrow. I fear I’ll find a donkey.
I bring all this up now because this morning I backed into the garage door. Hit it with my car as I was driving out. I’ve never done that before.
I am certain it was the fault of the chickens. I think one of those chicks flew across the garage as I backing out and pushed the little garage door button on the wall. Probably showing off. I’m sure it got a big laugh from the other chicks.
Staci’s claiming chickens can’t fly. So I looked it up on Wikipedia and it says they can fly, just not long distances. Now we’re debating whether the distance from the front of our garage to the back is a “long distance.”
This afternoon we fought over it. I yelled the line from above about finding a donkey when I walk into the garage tomorrow. She replied, “Then we’d have two asses in the garage.”
That was a pretty good line.
Next week’s our anniversary.
I think I’ll buy her a garage door.