The Chicken Mobile

I am deathly, irrationally, morbidly afraid, petrified, horrified, frightened, horror-stricken by chickens. Have I made myself clear? The clinical name for this is alektorophobia.

Washington Irving would have had a waaaaay scarier story if he’d written about a headless chicken. I’m just sayin’. I’m well aware that I need therapy, but I’m also Southern & eccentric, and I feel I wouldn’t be nearly as eccentric (i.e. fun) if I actually went into therapy, so right now I’m just staying away from chickens. No exposure therapy for this girl! For your sake. You’re welcome.

My close friends & family members are well aware of my aversion to all things feathered & flogging. My bestie, Shermetta, got me a coffee table book for Christmas one year that is nothing but pictures of chickens. The Schwendimann’s couldn’t WAIT for me to open that gift. (I don’t think I sent a thank you card for that one).

(I kid, I kid. I actually love this book, Extraordinary Chickens, by Stephen Green-Armytage. It lives on my coffee table, and my favorite pictures are below . . . 'cause even I can appreciate a fuzzy chicken).


My brother, owner of several fowl, is not an alektorophian. Obviously, the condition is not genetic. I would tell you my own sordid chicken tale, but I simply don’t want you to have nightmares. I’m no Washington Irving. Anywho, when my brother & his family went on vacation this year, he asked me to do the farm chores, excluding all chores involving the chickens. He had a young, sweet, non-crazy, untraumatized neighbor-girl collect eggs & feed & water those . . . those . . . those . . . birds. She survived the incident, but I think it should be noted that they paid her, whereas I worked for free. I think this only reinforces the idea of what dangerous work it is to raise chickens; World’s Most Dangerous Jobs: Coal Miners, Police Officers, Soldiers, Firemen, Oil Crews, and Chicken Farmers.

My brother is an experimental farmer. He’s always wanting to make his own cheese & such (special note – I will NOT be eating any cheese my brother makes). His most recent project is what I like to call “The Chicken Mobile.”



Yes, you are seeing that correctly, my friend. It is a chicken coop with wheels. Travel, after all, is very important . . . it really broadens one’s horizons. And my brother wants well-rounded chickens.

My husband & I have found great amusement in this chicken mobile, I’ll have to say. Many a pithy joke has been made at its expense. Today, however, it dawned on me that those devilish birds are close to my own home. What if they take a joyride to Lollygag Farm with their new wheels?!? You know, grab the keys & take off like whippersnappers are prone to do. I must put in extra security at my house, asap. World’s Most Dangerous Job: Chicken Farm Guard. Currently hiring.

(Please note that if The Gambler & I had chickens, our chicken mobile would look more like this, a Lexus amongst chicken mobiles. The Gambler is always fearful of us looking "white trashy." I keep telling him I'll get the refrigerator off the front porch very, very soon.)