My custodian buddy who chats with me daily during my plan time tells me that chickens can have heart attacks. That the companies who raise fryers give their chickens aspirin. Who knew? And CB elaborated that a chicken that has died from a heart attack will be found with a foot up in the air. I'm wondering if he was just pulling my leg. I don't think so.
In any case, I fear stepping out onto the porch of my Mansion, lest I behold a sea of chicken legs waving in the breeze. They are tormented regularly by the #1 son. He despises clucking chickens. Not as bad as Renee Zellweger's Ruby Thewes, whose solution to a floggin' rooster was to put him in a pot. The #1 son's solution to a floggin' rooster is to kick him so that he sails in a perfect parabola. Our checkered banty can attest to that.
No, the #1 son has a little game he plays with Farmer H's chickens. It's more of a game for #1 than it is for the chickens. When they hear the door open, or T-Hoe roll up the driveway, the chickens flock to the front yard. They are used to me or The Pony tossing them random snacks of bread, cereal, strawberry tops, corn cobs, or just about any leftover besides chicken. That's because The Pony says it will make them cannibals. #1 is having none of the chicken love. He likes to walk into their midst, letting them strut toward him, their beaks eagerly awaiting some tasty tossed crumb. Then #1 raises his arms over his head, yells, "YAHHH," and runs at them. They scurry and scatter to the woods, or under the camper.
I don't think that's good for their hearts.
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