Page 7 of Mother Clucker

Yeah, okay. Maybe I should keep that question to myself. It sounded pretty nuts now that I’d said it aloud.

I might be the only one who’d seen the rooster strut through. And though I’ve doubted my own sanity on occasion—like when I bought that pair of thousand dollar shoes because one of the other women at work had them—this time I was certain I wasn’t crazy.

There was a chicken on the loose and I was going after him. I’d count it as my exercise for the day.

I might even work up an appetite for breakfast by the time I was done. Too bad old Rowdy Rooster didn’t lay eggs. I could have made an omelet on that six burner professional cooktop in the condo.

No, I wasn’t a great cook. But maybe that was because I never had a great kitchen. I felt like in my current habitat, anything was possible.

Maybe I should have said yes when Mike had suggested we have a drink after work sometime. He was about ten rungs higher up the ladder in the company than my current position.

I’d said no mainly because I wasn’t attracted to him. But there was also the fact that dating someone in a position of power at my job seemed like asking for trouble. If I got a promotion, everyone would think I slept my way to the top.

After spending even a few hours in the lap of luxury, I had to think maybe I wasn’t so smart. A smart woman might have said yes to that invitation. Or at least a person who could admit she really did like nice things would have.

But no. I’d earn my own way. Buy my own nice things now that I realized the truth—that being surrounded by objects of superior quality was kind of like being given superpowers.

I felt that power now as I convinced myself I was going to catch that bird.

Look at me. Who’d have thought that me, a mid-west girl transplanted in a low level job in LA County, would be about to track and capture a rogue rooster and bring it back to my million-dollar condo? Well, not exactly my condo, but mine for the month at least.

If the people back in Iowa could see me now.

Actually, they could. I paused in my pursuit and turned so the ocean view was to my back, raised my phone high and smiled for the selfie for my Instapost account.

Maybe I’d make that my new profile picture when I got back inside and could see the darn cell screen without the sun glare.

A squawk caught my attention, followed by the flutter of feathered wings beating the air.

I spun toward the sound and there he was, in all his glory.

The colors were amazing. Red with hints of deep vibrant green and blue. Who knew chickens came in such beautiful colors?

In my lifetime I’d only encountered the basic white version. Seeing this handsome guy, I had a whole new appreciation for the species.

Of course, catching him was going to be another story.

“Come here, chicky-chicky-chicky. Come here, boy. What do I have for you?” I shoved my cell into my pocket and held out my cupped hand toward him.

Hopefully he wouldn’t realize my hand held nothing more than empty promises—just like the last man I’d seriously dated.

The bird cocked his head and evaluated me with one beady eye, not stepping forward but not running away either, which I figured was a good sign.

Even if he did come to me, what was I going to do with him? I didn’t even have a leash or a box or anything.

I was going to have to grab him like a football and run home. What I was going to do when I got there was yet another issue.

As I considered my growing list of problems, the bird took one step forward, then a second.

In shock, I stood perfectly still as he got closer to me.

Finally I realized he wasn’t coming to me. He was walking toward a bug on the ground by my foot, judging by the cock of his head and his one-eyed stare.

I leaned low, ready to pounce—if I could get up the nerve to grab a wild animal whose feet I had just noticed were tipped with what looked more like talons than nails.

He pivoted his head and glared at me with his other eye and I froze.

Nothing to see here. Just me, acting like a statue.

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