I walk out of the shed in my parent’s backyard and hear chickens in the distance.
Then, I recall the two bags of chicken feed nestled in the back of my father’s Civic, so I slip on my dedicated chicken coup sandals, Jesus-Hawaiian-classics (slightly too tight for my feet), grab the car keys, and exit through the house’s front door. The coup is situated on the opposite end of the property, so I drive the Civic west across the acre estate.
(exiting the vehicle)
“I hear ya, relax!”
I pop the trunk, retrieve bag #1, enter the coup, and open the bag—pouring all sixty pounds of pellets—nearly crippling my emaciated structure in the process. I collect three white eggs strewn about the hay-stuffed nesting stalls, drop bag #2 into the storage bin, and storm out before the dust y mierda settles.