Who's afraid of the big bad chicken?

I recently made a startling discovery: I am afraid of chickens.

A problem. Because for months, I've been attempting to get my husband on board with adding a couple chickens to our family, an idea to which he adamantly opposes. "Who will clean up their shit? Our dog will torture them. What will we do with them when it rains?" (A snapshot of his many objections.)

Not to worry. Because as it turns out, as I said, I am truly afraid of them. This minor obstacle to my chicken ownership campaign revealed itself at the Prescott Zoo, where chickens roam free and follow you around.

It began cordially enough, the chickens greeting us nonchalantly upon entering the zoo. At lunch, everything changed. My husband took the kids to the play area so I could set-up our picnic. Not two seconds into it, the chickens were everywhere, all over me.

Fearing an attack on my ankles, I jumped onto the picnic table (not the bench part, but the actual table, smack in the middle of our lunch). Simultaneously, a zoo caretaker came over and began to shoo those crazy chickens away. "City girl up from Phoenix, I guess?" she said, barely containing her laughter.

City girl? I grew up in Midwest farm country. "Well," I thought standing on the table looking down at my high-heeled sandals, "I guess 10+ years of city living have, well, citified me."

On the drive back to Phoenix, I debated whether or not to tell my husband what had happened. I decided to tell him and put to rest any concerns he might have about our future as chicken owners.

At first he said nothing, just laughed. Then, "You know, when you own chickens, you actually have to pick them up once in awhile."

Pick them up? I think not!

It was a lovely idea, though. I guess it's good to know what scares me. I just never expected it to be chickens.

p.s. This post is about yoga, very much so, actually.