October 12, 2014 – It was a sun-drenched, wind-wisped autumn day. Orangey-yellow and red leaves fell like tiny blankets over the last remnants of green grass in the side yard. After ranging for bugs and grubs and an abundance of night crawlers, we hens in Coop #3 decided to settle into our henhouse for a hot bowl of Sawyer’s grasshopper and cricket chili and a televised game of the human sport known as football.
We snuggled into the couch together under the heavy crotched afghan that Charlotte made for us last season.
Tim finished up his security rounds with Bo just in time to watch the game with us.
“Who’s playing?” he asked out of curiosity.
“The ones over there with those helmets,” Betty explained, “against those on that side with the other helmets.”
“Oooh, sounds like a heated contest is about to unfold!” Tim replied, taking the bowl of chili that Sawyer scooped for him before settling into the couch between me and Waffles.
“There sure is a lot of whistle blowing in this sport,” Hattie remarked.
“As well as a lot of patting each other on the bottom,” laughed Sawyer.
During a break in the action, the announcer man said to his cohost, “They sure know how to pass the pigskin around!”
I was mid-lift with a spoonful of chili and dropped it right back into the bowl.
“Did he just call the football a PIGSKIN?!” I asked in disbelief. All I could think about was our friend Vivienne, from Mrs. Turner’s farm.
Before anyone could answer, the cohost laughed and said how surprised he was at the last catch since the receiver had put on so much weight during the off-season. “All those chicken fingers and fries!” he chortled.
“Chicken fingers!” Wilma bellowed sitting forward in her seat. “What kind of nincompoops are these people? Who has ever seen a chicken with FINGERS?!”
I very much enjoyed the tackling and passing maneuvers. It reminded me of us when we play, “I’ve got the worm!”. We cheered for the referee in the black and white shirt since we didn’t have a team favorite.
“Run, man with the whistle!” we cheered. Wilma nearly threw her chili at the television set, when the team on defense knocked down our guy by mistake.
“PERSONAL FOUL!!” She cried in protest as if they could hear her.
“You’re a personal fowl,” laughed Tim, nudging her back into her seat. Surprisingly, Wilma cackled joyfully and didn’t eat Tim or peck him in the eye. It must be, Be Kind to Bantams Day inside her head.
We watched the game until the end of the first quarter. Then we switched over to a National Geographic documentary about the migration of sand crabs. It was riveting.
Such a wonderful day spent with my family, but now I am exhausted. I’m hitting the nest box early tonight. Tomorrow is a full day at the brewery. Maybe I’ll name a flavor after our referee: Wet Your Pigskin Whistle Black and White Lager. Eh, maybe I’ll sleep on it.