I don't know if you guys feel the same way, but I'm not sure where the summer has gone so far. Heck, I'm not sure where the year has gone. There's been work in the basement and gardening projects and visitors from out of town and chickens (more on this later!), and while it's been delightful . . . well, sometimes there's only so much delight one can take, y'know?
– John Wanamaker
Remember above when I mentioned chickens and said I'd get back to that? Here we go--but first, a little backstory:
I'm involved in a number of massage therapy groups online. In one of them, a discussion came up about what exactly other MTs wear for work. Shorts were discussed--length, type of fit, etc. Tank tops came up and were (overall) dismissed as being inappropriate; armpits were considered "unprofessional."
In my own minor rebellion, I work a tank top and cargo shorts to my office the next day. And I brought a chicken.
Yep, you read that right. I totally brought a chicken in to work with me. And here's the backstory on that:
Greg and I ordered chickens* from a hatchery. They arrived at the beginning of June. Three weeks into it, I discovered one of the chicks curled up against the side of the pen, the others literally running roughshod over him. In order to make sure he survived, I had to separate him from the others and hand-feed him. It was kind of touch-and-go for a few days, so I had to take him in to the office to keep an eye on him. I even took him to my family reunion at the end of the week.
As it stands, the chicken has survived and is doing well. Er, mostly. Through the magic of Google, I've come to the conclusion that he suffered the avian equivalent of poor prenatal care. His legs are all wonky, so I need to make him leg braces and whatnot. Chicken PT will be involved, too, which means . . . you guessed it, more visits to work with Mom.
So, yeah. If you come in for a session and there's a chicken in the office hallway in a makeshift Johnny Jump-Up, that's the story on that. He's quite the engaging little fellow, honestly--he's been handled so much that he's rather people-friendly (he's sitting on my belly, trilling, as I'm typing this).
Heck, even if you just want to stop by and meet the chickie, feel free. 'Cause that's how we roll around here: massage and petting zoo, all in one.
* We've currently got 23. No eggs, they're all roosters. There's a vulgar joke in there, but I'm going to pretend I have some class and not go there right now. If you want to know what the joke is, though, just email me.
Now, the reason we get chickens is to put them in the freezer. It should come as no surprise to anyone that chickie is likely to avoid that fate by sheer dint of being charming. (Yes, I'm a sucker. Again, this should come as no surprise.)
At some point, he's going to stop being a chickie and become a chicken. I'd like to have a decent name to call him by at that point. I've thrown around "Little Wing" (as a reference to the song by Jimi Hendrix), "Hendrix," and a couple of other names, but none are quite sticking or roll well off the tongue.
Got a good idea for a name? If so, send me an email.
If I pick the name, you get a free half-hour upgrade card.
Two items of note:
- For those who care, chickie is a Columbian Wyandotte.
- No, I'm not naming him Foghorn Leghorn.
Okay, guys. Chickie is telling me loudly and vociferously that he's hungry, so I guess it's time to put him back in his pen and let him do his thing. It's been great hanging out with the little dude, even if it's taken me a little longer to put this together than it would have otherwise. However, as the great Bertrand Russell said, "The time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time."
So no matter how busy you are, I hope you can stop and take a few minutes--at the very least--to do something that makes you happy. Pause on your drive home to admire the sunset. Have a glass of wine on the porch and watch your kids play before you go make dinner. Cuddle your dog, or your spouse, or your chicken. Take a deep breath and savor the feeling of being alive, right here, right now.