August 8, 2013 – There was a lot of noise coming from inside our coop today, different from the typical “I just laid an egg, top that!” squawking that can be heard around here on any given morning. Tim and Sawyer were seated on either side of a tree stump playing a game of Mahjong, so the noise had to be coming from Wilma. I hesitantly climbed the short ladder into the coop, not sure at all that I should interfere with whatever it was Wilma has doing. “AGGHHH!!!! @$#*&@#$!!!” roared through the doorway. “Cover me, great rooster in the sky,” I prayed, then inhaled deeply and stepped over the threshold. It was hard to contain my laughter. Wilma was stuck in some sort of tightly woven body wrap, struggling desperately to remove herself from its clasp. “Ahhh, pig poop!” she spat when she turned and saw me standing before her befuddled. “Get out of here, Happy!” she snarled. I didn’t know what was attacking her, but I certainly wasn’t going to leave her there to battle it alone. “Wilma, take a breath and let me help. What happened?” She was hesitant to explain until I promised not to tell the others. “It’s called a girdle,” she explained, finally exhaling. “It helps pull in floppy stomach muscles… which I don’t have, mind you! I noticed the Orpington hens were looking a little droopy, so I bought one to try out for them.” I walked around Wilma assessing the situation. I snapped the white elastic fibers that were crushing the mahogany feathers on Wilma’s chest and she nearly toppled over. Her wings were bound to her sides and she was sweating profusely. “Happy, please just get me out of this!” she pleaded. “Are you supposed to wear it this high on your body?” I inquired, suddenly intrigued why any female would wear such a thing. “NO!” She answered, irritated by my line of questioning. “I put it on over my head and it got stuck. I can’t pull it up or down. The harder I try, the more I sweat. I can’t feel my legs anymore. Happy, PLEASE!” Hmmmm. It was an interesting position that I found myself in. I remembered the many times Wilma’s beak has left its mark on the back of my head. I remembered the times she made snide comments about my inventions and errant adventures. In the end, I relented. I grabbed a pair of scissors and sliced that girdle open like I was cutting material in the Domestics Department of Woolworths. When the fabric released its grip on Wilma, her wings reflexed and smacked me across the face. “Sorry about that,” she said earnestly. “I had a cramp.” I helped her clean up the crime scene and kept my promise of not telling the others. As you can see, there was never any agreement regarding entries into my journal. Wilma is resting, exhausted by the day’s ordeal. I don’t think I’ll sleep tonight. The image of her sweaty body bound in the clutches of her mail order underwear is going to stay with me for a long time.
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