If you have ever had the pleasure of being in a throng of baby chickens you would know that locomotion in such a situation requires particular care. You dare not lift your feet more than an inch for fear that as you place it down you will hear a sickening crunch and simultaneous squeak that advertises the end of a fuzzy peeper. Also be aware that chicks have absolutely no qualms about milling around people. In fact, they think shoelaces are quite possibly tasty little worms. Add to that a sprinkling of grain at your feet and you are thus condemned to what I have dubbed ‘the baby chicken shuffle’. Tiny shuffling footsteps that result in torturously slow progress.
Oh my! is right.
If I ever needed to reconsider having dogs, goats, and chickens, that was all it would take.
“So I'm lightin' out for the territory, ahead of the scared and the weak and the mean spirited, because Aunt Sally is fixin’ to adopt me and civilize me, and I can't stand it. I've been there before.”
My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to read a tiny ad:
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