A funny story on the Graveyard Shift blog...
Reminded me of my career as a crime fighter. Sort of. For 21 years I was married to a small-town cop. A really, really small town. Let's call it Windy Point. That's not it's name, but I was windy ,so...
This town was so small it only had 2 1/2 cops. That meant that the town was "unprotected" about 8 hours a day as the half cop worked the other two cops days off.
My ex was a scrappy little banty rooster type.Think a Hispanic looking Barney Fife. Although he wasn't Hispanic, some Native America from way back popped up in him. We'll call him Barney. Might as well, everybody else did.
Most of the "crime" in this town was kids pulling stunts. And my ex catching them. For some reason that made the kids mad. One of them got his revenge on us one night.
This was such a small town that at least in those days, nobody locked their doors. Neither did we. And that was our downfall.
One morning early, I heard a strange noise and woke up. I went to see what it was and found a couple of chickens in our house. Now in order for you to get the "problem" with chickens in the house, I have to tell you about the chicken hit game. We used to play this every year at the town festival. It consisted of a box about 3 feet square with boxes with numbers painted on them in the bottom. You bet on which number the chicken would hit. Then they'd put the chicken in the box, and whatever number they pooped on won. Chickens will hit anywhere, and all the time, especially if they get excited. Like being put in a small box, or being woken up in their nice cozy coop and transported elsewhere.
So you can imagine what they were doing in my house. I am not a farm type girl, the closest I had gotten to chickens was that our neighbors across the street in the rural area I grew up with had chickens. I don't like them unless they are Original Recipe. Definitely don't like them on the hoof. Or claw as the case may be. They peck, and they run from you, and they fly up and perch on things. I found all this out when we were trying to get the danged things out of our house. It took us about half an hour to persuade the little darling to go outside into the yard. Picture two naked people running back and forth in a 14 X 60 trailer chasing chickens. Eventually between the two of us, we cornered them so they went out the back door. I guess we figured out who they belonged to later and they came and got them. I don't know, I was busy picking up feathers and various other gifts the visitors had left.
I'll tell more about my life as a crime fighter later, and more about Barney.
This town was so small it only had 2 1/2 cops. That meant that the town was "unprotected" about 8 hours a day as the half cop worked the other two cops days off.
My ex was a scrappy little banty rooster type.Think a Hispanic looking Barney Fife. Although he wasn't Hispanic, some Native America from way back popped up in him. We'll call him Barney. Might as well, everybody else did.
Most of the "crime" in this town was kids pulling stunts. And my ex catching them. For some reason that made the kids mad. One of them got his revenge on us one night.
This was such a small town that at least in those days, nobody locked their doors. Neither did we. And that was our downfall.
One morning early, I heard a strange noise and woke up. I went to see what it was and found a couple of chickens in our house. Now in order for you to get the "problem" with chickens in the house, I have to tell you about the chicken hit game. We used to play this every year at the town festival. It consisted of a box about 3 feet square with boxes with numbers painted on them in the bottom. You bet on which number the chicken would hit. Then they'd put the chicken in the box, and whatever number they pooped on won. Chickens will hit anywhere, and all the time, especially if they get excited. Like being put in a small box, or being woken up in their nice cozy coop and transported elsewhere.
So you can imagine what they were doing in my house. I am not a farm type girl, the closest I had gotten to chickens was that our neighbors across the street in the rural area I grew up with had chickens. I don't like them unless they are Original Recipe. Definitely don't like them on the hoof. Or claw as the case may be. They peck, and they run from you, and they fly up and perch on things. I found all this out when we were trying to get the danged things out of our house. It took us about half an hour to persuade the little darling to go outside into the yard. Picture two naked people running back and forth in a 14 X 60 trailer chasing chickens. Eventually between the two of us, we cornered them so they went out the back door. I guess we figured out who they belonged to later and they came and got them. I don't know, I was busy picking up feathers and various other gifts the visitors had left.
I'll tell more about my life as a crime fighter later, and more about Barney.
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