Cluck, you

“Chick Days” read the ad insert for Tractor Supply Co. in my daily newspaper. The last time I saw live poultry advertised, I was seven and begged to get a chick – dyed blue or pink – from the Roses Five and Dime. This live Easter basket filler was common when I was a kid, and was a bad idea for everyone involved. Especially the chicks.

Today, chickens (not the Technicolor ones) are hip. Two of my neighbors now have chickens. Most recently, my next-door neighbor put in a coop with about six hens. Well, two might be roosters. She’s not sure. Her toddler son has named them. He selected the creative choice Fuzzy for one with long feathers on its head and feet. He quickly figured out how to open the latch on the coop, so I may be seeing more of the chickens.

The Hub hooted over the ad’s photos of pullets and bantams as glossily groomed as supermodels. He pointed at the center of the page: “Look, you get them in little cardboard boxes.”

Doesn’t most chicken come in boxes or buckets?

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