Closet Hillbilly

Contrary to popular belief, not everyone in Texas is... southern. I happen to be one of them. I am mercilessly teased about not eating red meat (read: anything with eyelashes). I do not in fact know how to do the Boot Scootin Boogie. I rode horses all throughout my childhood, but it involved a riding jacket, crop pants and equestrian boots. Not a cowboy hat in sight. There is, however, a little bit of yeehaw way down deep in my soul. 

{Top} Thrifted  {Jeans} American Eagle  {Belt} Forever 21  {Bag}  Coach
{Sandals} Target  {Sunnies} Ray Ban  {Necklace} Lala Crystal on Etsy

For one, I love me some bull riding. Put a dirty, bowlegged cowboy on the back of a half ton animal with a rope tied around its most sensitive bits, and I suddenly become a whoopin' and hollerin' Child of Dixie. I have no idea where that comes from. I believe it's one of those 'stand there and look pretty' kinds of things where you aren't really interested in the man per se, but just the idea of it all. The behavior itself is inexcusable.

I also have a sick, sick obsession with a little show on the History Channel called Swamp People. Again, real life people in the USofA hunting alligators in canoes, eating squirrels and requiring the use of subtitles for their butchering of the English language manage to keep me riveted to the TV for an entire hour a week. A real life gator hunt has even made its way to my bucket list.

And by real life, I mean in a separate, non canoe boat many, many feet away from the actual gator killing. Very hands off.

How to Catch a Chicken

Yeah, I don't know how either. I did however, have to learn.

Dare I say, "On the fly."

A few weeks ago on a Thursday morning I was backing out of my driveway for work and glanced at my mirror in time to something red run out from under my car. I did a double take and realized I was looking at the back end of a chicken running across the street. Now, my everyday life doesn't normally include close interactions with barnyard life, so chicken wrangling isn't on my list of have-dones. In fact, it was on my list of hope-to-nevers.

As I continued to back out, I realized that the poor guy was probably going to get run over or poached by one of my rather aggressive cats, so I felt it was fate that I ended up spotting him on the one morning I was running a little ahead of schedule. Figuring he came from the neighbor's chicken yard, I got out of my car, strolled over to the neighbor's and bent over to help my new friend over the fence. Lesson #1: Chickens aren't fond of being handled. I was met with severe clucking, wing flapping and talon thrashing. I also found that this particular chicken was freakishly fast. Before I could grab on, the bird took off on a death run with in my opinion, excessive amounts of directional changes and head bobbing. 

Once I realized this wasn't going to be a walk in the park, I devised a strategy. I would use some chicken wire that was lying in the yard and lay it against the fence, creating a tunnel to herd the chicken into, and then placed a large empty trash bin at the end to act as the receptacle. My plan was to swiftly grab the trash can and dump the little red bastard over the fence. What I didn't plan on was the chicken exiting the tunnel early. Lesson #2: Chickens will peck the hell out of you. 

{Tee} Gap Outlet  {Skinnies} Rue 21  {Flats} Target  {Bag} Coach 
{Scarf} Forever 21  {Sunnies} Ray Ban  {Watch} Target

After multiple laps around the yard and a few attempts to scare it back over the fence, I had really had enough. Here I am trying to spare this tasty idiot back into a yard that I had no business being in in the first place. I decided to try the tunnel experiment one more time before giving up and saving myself some money on cat food for the next few days. I shooed him back into the tunnel, and as he popped out the other side, I grabbed him around the middle and in true shot-put style chucked that mother clucker over the fence in one fell swoop. 

Brittany: Wife, therapist, blogger, chicken wrangler.