The chicken show wasn't what it was cracked up to be

Aware of my love of the fuzzy footed chicken (and feeling guilty that he'd spent the bulk of Saturday having Amy-free fun...which, by the way, consisted of cardio and grueling physical activity based on balance and synchronous movement...yeah...real "fun."), my husband suggested we take an hour drive down to the Southern Tier to attend a poultry and water fowl fair. Toss in a breakfast invitation and he definitely had my interest. 

Now, I know what you're thinking...Amy, if you want to look at a chicken, you can just WALK to your friend Deb's...Yes. This is true. But Deb recently posted that she'd been maliciously pecked by one of her brood and, as a reprisal, killed and cooked it. Right now (fingers crossed), I am currently on good terms with my friend/neighbor but, should I inadvertently cause her some sort of physical or emotional harm...who knows how she might react. I'll travel the hour, thank you very much, to look at chickens WITHOUT having to be constantly looking over my shoulder.

Despite the drizzle (the ducks didn't seem to mind), we sallied forth, undaunted. Cloth sneakers were  unfortunate choice. As we picked our way across the muddy parking lot and fair grounds, we were impressed by the vast array of license plates hailing from Kentucky, Tennessee, Ontario, and the eastern seaboard. Wow. These people were serious about their chickens. We took refuge in the goose building first...shocked to see geese the size of guard dogs in there. "See" might be too loose a verb...let's go with "glimpsed" as we were quickly herded out as the barn was closing because the Goose Grammy Awards were scheduled to begin in ANOTHER building. Okk-aay.

We searched several other empty buildings on our hunt...our sneakers getting soggier with every step. I bet Deb would provide me with a warm beverage after I viewed her chickens, I thought wistfully. Hearing a cacophony of crowing, we followed the noise to a place full of poultry. We'd hit the motherload. Chickens of every size, color, and assorted states of fluffiness. We made it successfully down one aisle before the chicken bouncer alerted us that the Pulitzer Prize for Poultry was about to begin and they had to secure the building. Devastated, I will admit to a bit of lolly-gagging as I SLOWLY exited, trying to see as many chickens as possible but the barn bouncer lurked closely behind me; ruffling my feathers in the process. 

Feeling rather hen-pecked, we flew the coop. Passing a stand of gloriously-colored flowers, we paused to purchase a bouquet. As I agonized over my choice, I apologized for taking so much time. "I'm sure you have some important award ceremony to attend," I commiserated. "Stay as long as you want," he answered, smiling, "and be sure to poppy in any time." It was too late to back-petal. I bought two bouquets. "Seed ya later," he waved. "Hosta la vista!" I said, waddling away in my squishy shoes. 

Our hour's-long quest to see chickens may have come up short but the flowers were beautiful and breakfast was delicious so in the end, I think we can call "No harm/No fowl."