Intruders

It was Sunday. It was a perfect day. Church, good food, a walk in the park... we were all happy. We had just come home and were preparing to settle in for the evening.

Then, I saw them. Four of them. Strutting around in our pasture like they belonged there.

Chickens.

Have I ever mentioned that I hate chickens? It has to do with painful childhood experiences. You know, the kind that run deep and require serious therapy to overcome. I would rather just hate the chickens. It's more fun.

So I did what any normal, rational, protective housewife would do: I dropped the diaper bag on the doorstep and waddled my pregnant body over to the pasture to chase them away.

They must have sensed my outrage, because they started edging away from the gate they'd been contemplating going through when they saw my first steps toward them. By the time I actually reached said gate, they were a good three feet away from it. I stormed into the pasture, almost heedless of the mud that squelched ever so slightly around my shoes.

Okay, maybe I wasn't heedless of the mud. After all, at this point in the winter, the entire pasture is a mudpit, and a lot of the top layer isn't actually mud, if you know what I mean. Fortunately, I had on my old tennies, and so I at least mostly disregarded the mud that squelched around my shoes.

Then began the high-speed chase. I stalked toward the chickens in that spraddle-legged walk that only a pregnant woman can achieve. I was a holy terror on a righteous mission, bent on eradicating the vermin from my otherwise pristine life. They, in turn, strutted away in sheer terror.

We made our way toward the back of the pasture, where some of the panels had been bent out of shape in the last storm. It was their only refuge, and they made for it with the single-mindedness that only a chicken can achieve. I followed after them, a warrior intent on a cause, doing my pregnant best to keep them from scattering in four different directions, as only chickens can do. That hole in the fence was my goal as well, for outside the fence was another domain, one not under my protection.

We finally reached the refuge and I chased those chickens through, allowing them no recourse. That's right, fowl, don't mess with a pregnant lady!

Thinking back, I probably should have gotten a broom. Not only would that have helped enforce my point to the little buggers, it also would have made some great imagery. I also probably should have gotten a camera, as a pregnant lady chasing four chickens through a mudhole can't help but be an amusing picture.