Ding-dong ...

… went the doorbell this afternoon. Standing there was Mr. P., an 80-ish year-old sharp-shooter who lives two doors down, in our anti-poultry-HOA-neighborhood. “Did you know you have a chicken in your front yard?” he asked, with a somewhat perplexed tone to his voice.

A million thoughts raced through my mind. Should I act as perplexed as he? “A chicken! My word!”, I could respond. Should I act offended? “A chicken! The nerve!…” Should I act mortified? “A chicken! Don’t they know that’s against the rules?!?” I could then offer to help root out the CC&R-breaking citizen.

But no. Do you know how I responded? “A chicken. Oh! She must have gotten out when the tree people left the side-gate open.” Way to be clandestine, Robin. I was more caught up with the fact that Mr. P. was calling Lafawnduh a “he”. “He’s over there pecking under the bushes”, “I threw some birdseed at him but he ran away”, “I thought he was wild”, “He looks like a rooster.” “No, no,” I reassured him. “She’s a she.” (and doesn’t ever crow early in the morning). Somehow, he seemed okay with just knowing I claimed ownership; knowing Lafawnduh had a home. He left after I said she would find her own way home to roost by nightfall.

As it turns out, Lafawnduh appeared in the backyard two hours later. I ran around the side of the house and closed the gate. Man. It is very stressful living life as a rule-breaker.