Old people talking about their illnesses is tedious (even, or perhaps especially) to each other in the hospital. It’s time for a story. It may be the last one I have, because I live on peaceful Whidbey Island, even though the local newspaper rumors that NBC Dateline will cover one of our big murder trials.
Or the exciting news may be the integration of our chicken coop. The black “sex-link” pullets (teenagers) are trying to sleep with the Dominique hens (doesn’t that sound racy)? (The Dominiques are a mixture of black and white, rather like Barak).
Except Lucy, the bottom of the adult hen pecking order (and a very belligerent hen with a very bad attitude) says, “No pullets on my perch and no pullets on the nice new perch next to mine Grandma installed.” Then Lucy pecked the pullets’ tail feathers in a very nasty way. The pullets fled and hid in their closet. But then Grandma talked to all the hens and sternly told them they had to sleep together like good little hens, and in the morning there were no feathers or bloody spots to be found. So peace reigns in the hen house, sort of.
Instead I will tell about the time I almost became a Kenyan millionaire, just before I retired.