A formal apology from The Dr's Office

Dr. Festivus would like to apologize. Apparently, his/her medical humorosity has not been dispensed at adequate pace or dosage to satisfy the lonely three of you who actually follow this blogblogblog.

Do the Dr. a favor, please let me know exactly how many patients there are in the waiting room so he can figure how many appointments to schedule. Also, please remove your clothes. Except you, Drew.

Let me tell you a tale, my children. A tale of rosy chickens, hefty handlers, and assassinatory cats. Yes. Assassinatory.

Sunday, I left me house to do something useless. Turning into the alleyway in the Superu (complete with new dents, which I suspect came from the fat hacky-sack playing teenager across the street), I noticed the neighbor's inappropriately named young black cat Boy in the ready position ahead of my car, facing away from me. I honked, but he didn't even glance back at me. Using my knowledge obtained from the Jeff Corwin Experience and the musical Cats!, I realized that he was in stalking position. Ipso facto, he was stalking something. Was it a mouse? A stray human baby? I had to find out.

Rounding the corner on foot, I was confronted with a beautiful plumed hen-- a chicken--clucking and walking in slow circles, gradually, gradually away from danger. The cat, Boy (named by the neighbor's kids, who I suspect aren't racist, but they may well be), was either fascinated at the stupidity of the fowl or readying himself for the kill. Though the epic motions of nature's struggles are always good viewing--and especially so in person--I was less interested in seeing a bloody fowl corpse than getting on my way to pastures greener. Plus, there were now two cars waiting on my own to move forward in the alleyway.

Speedy quick, I chased the cat off a short distance to avoid returning to a bloody, feathery mess, and knocked on my next-door-neighbor's door. Belated detail: she has a chicken coop in her backyard. Seeing as we are probably 30 miles from the nearest actual farm, I assumed the hen belonged to her. As is usual when my (very nice) neighbor and I have our infrequent interactions, she answered the door a bit flustered, with two slightly anxious-looking Japanese exchange students eyeing me suspiciously. My theories on that relationship are for another post. At any rate, she told the Japanese kids to "focus on making their sandwiches" and asked me what was up.

Me: Hi. Yeah, I think one of your chickens is in the alleyway and Boy is trying to kill it.

Her: Ah! Which one?

Me: Um.

(inner monologue for me) what the fuck kind of question is that which chicken. I don't know your stupid chickens from Adam, should I just make up a name? Mr. Boondoggles. That chicken. God!

It's kind of orange.

Her: ROSIE! Dammit!

Turns out, when the garbage truck bumps the fence to her yard, it can uncover a hold in the posts that these idiot birds sneak through to wander in circles, clucking and attempting to eat gravel. We hustlebustled back to the alleyway, during which time Boy accompanied us. Then, for the next minute or so (that's a full 60s, imagine it), I, along with Boy the Cat and three other car denizens, were treated to the following scene: My neighbor involved in a low-speed circular chase with Rosie the chicken, with lots of clucking going on from both parties ("rosie, are we going to do this again?! You embarass me!" "gobble gobble cluck cluck"). Each time the neighbor girl got near (it's obvious by now I can't remember her name), she would most unathletically swoop her arms down towards the bird, and at the last second Rosie would take a couple of lousy chicken-prance steps forward, leaving her owner with nothing but air and hands that continued in an uncoordinated fashion into a self-hug. Swearing, repeat.

Finally, after I almost pissed myself but kept my mouth shut (I was closer to actually getting a lawn chair and a tall can of Vitamin R), she chased Rosie McShitforbrains into the foliage and pinned her against the wall. Cue feathers and leaves a'flyin! Marching back to the yard, I was able to see the other drivers/passenger's faces as they comprehended the cause of the delay. Shock, confusion, and glorious smiles were all I could gather, but it was enough to convince me that the tale was worth relaying. Moral? I pay $662.50 per month to live in El Salvador.

ala-kazaam! st. patrick got the snakes out, but I have no idea about the newts.