Last night I called Kevin from the road, and I happened to catch him as he was pulling into our driveway. He’d gone pheasant hunting, and was telling me about it when he broke off mid-sentence.
“I don’t have anything for you,” he said, although clearly not to me. And then, to me, “Chicken Little wants to follow me into the house.” Chicken Little is, unsurprisingly, our smallest hen, a Rhode Island Red.
I heard a rustling sound and then, “Braaak, buk buk buk. Braak.” Then more rustling, and Kevin was back.
“Honey,” I said. “Did you just put a chicken on the phone?”
“What did you expect?” he said. “You know the cat never says anything.”