Chickens really like grapes. Farmer H watched The Pony and I toss those green grapes off the porch to his dwindling flock of chickens. They have been in the refrigerator, taking up space for two weeks, and were starting to turn brown. The grapes, not the chickens. Those chickens came running, little thought-bubbles over their feathered heads, thinking, "Ooh, what's this? A new treat? For us? A squishy, moist treat, to be squeezed with the beak, then swallowed whole?"
Farmer H's thought-bubble was a bit different: "My grapes!"