The chickens got out about 15 minutes ago, as they do every few days. When one has livestock AND a garden, this is an urgent situation. Last fall they skeletonized two rows of chard the week that they were ready for the market. So, I dashed out the door and met my son, sticks in hand. (The sticks are for looking larger, and occasional pokes. We do not hit the chickens with them.) After I blocked the hole in the fence, I rounded up the birds. He opened and closed the gate on the pen. This was a 10 minute operation involving me running hither and yon, dodging and weaving. It generally involves frustration and irritation because chickens are small, fast, and kind of dumb.
When we were done, he looked at me, grinned, and said, “Hey! That was kind of fun! It’s sort of like a sport.”
And do you know? He was right.