Cock-A-Doodle.....Dead...Part I

I've mentioned before that my mom lives way up a holler halfway up the side of a mountain. It's kinda out in the boonies if you know what I mean. Anyhow, the men in my family have always had chickens and Mom has hated every one of them. She likes having fresh eggs but not the messes that they leave behind. Invariably, one always seems to get out of the hen house, scratch around in her perfectly manicured flower beds and leave her a present on the front porch that she always steps in. Damn chickens! Over the past few years all of the chickens had either died or disappeared. Or, maybe, they just flew the coop. Mom no longer had any chickens, and she was glad. One morning the next door neighbor that shares part of a driveway with her came over for a chat and mentioned that his Grandma that lived up the next holler had too many chickens and he was going to take a few and start him up an egg business. Dad had always shared his eggs with the neighbors and this fellow missed eating fresh eggs for breakfast. Before you knew it, those chickens had multiplied faster than ants at a summer picnic. All of this would have been fine if he had built a chicken coop to keep those nasty things locked up, but he didn't. They were everywhere. In Mom's flower beds, leaving messes on both the front and back porches, crowing and clucking at all hours of the day and night. There's nothing worse than chickens that work on the third shift--up all night and sleep all day. "Fire, Fire! My house is on fire," screamed the neighbor. "Call 911..."