I have a story for you guys. Today my fiance's dad came to visit. He has been SO excited to see the chickens. He asks about them every time he calls. After all my fiances bragging about how wonderful they are who wouldn't? So, I let the chickies out in the backyard while he was here. He fed them some bread and they did all their little chicken hobbies. Dust baths, little sun bathing burritos in a row, the electric slide bug hunt, you know the drill. He thought they were super cute and really enjoyed them. Then, it came time for my fiance to take his dad to lunch. My fiance thought it was a wonderful idea to offer to help me put the chickens away before they left. I had failed to discuss this with him before his dad arrived and tell him under no circumstances to make me chase my bad little birdies all over the yard in front of his dad. I politely declined his help but he INSISTED. Not wanting to seem rude or argumentative in front of my future father in law I said, "thanks" and the fun began... We tried to herd them into the coop in the orderly fashion that happens EVERY SINGLE DAY, what a joke. Chickens are just like children. The second company comes around they loose their minds and forget every shred of manners they ever possessed. The chickens SCATTERED like mice all over the yard in every direction. A few more failed attempts at chicken herding led to a game of "chase the chicken". My fiance had given up at this point leaving me running circles around the coop and dashing through bushes, kicking up dirt and crashing through spider webs never coming CLOSE to catching an actual CHICKEN as he and his father watched. "Chase the chicken" lasted a solid 20 minutes and left me with several party favors from Miss Noodle and a chest and neck full of dirt thanks to Fern and her recent mud bath. My success rate was much like a disoriented 5 year old that had been tossed onto the field during an NFL game and told "YOU'RE THE NEW DEFENSIVE TACKLE KID". After what seems like a blur of blocked out memories I finally plopped the last screaming chickie in the run, closed the latch with authority and huffed and puffed my way over to my fiance and his dad. I stood there sopping and dripping and panting as they looked at me the way someone might look at a toilet in a public bathroom that hadn't been flushed. I blotted myself with the paper towel I had in my pocket and tried to act natural. As if I wasn't embarrassed and terrified of how I must have looked. They tried their best to make eye contact while talking to me, but a problem was so obvious I eventually had to excuse myself to the bathroom. Upon visual contact with the mirror I faced the same expression they had given me moments before. A mere 20 minute struggle with the worst behaved little chickens on the planet had left me with 100% sweat saturated hair as if I had jumped in an imaginary pool, raccoon smudged eyes from my running eyeliner, mascara dripped CLEAN DOWN MY FACE and onto my neck and shirt, a tomato RED face as if I had just finished winning a gold metal in the Summer Olympics, several different specimens of mud caked from my neck to my knees, both arms crisscrossed in scratches, and my yellow cotton shirt soaked in sweat clinging to me like a CLEAR sausage casing. The clean up process took longer than our game of "chase the chicken". My ever so polite family waited for me before leaving for lunch as if I wasn't embarrassed enough without a reappearance. How sweet. Never try to put away your chickens in front of company. EVER. Here is a mugshot of the ringleader of our posse.