The 4th Hot Dog of July

Bitch stole my outfit.

As a temporarily unemployed hen, my Fourth of July weekend turned into a Fourth of July week. But with hen friends in the coup and enjoying the sights and sounds of new barns and fresh chicken wire, I prolonged my visits and kept cackling. While away from my own farm, I also met a few hens in northern Florida who just didn't understand me. When they assumed, they made an ass of u and me and everyone in between.

For the USA's special day, a few of us hens met at our friend, Erin's house and flapped along to a party at Erin's friend's coup. With the promise of hot dogs and fireworks, I gladly joined. The celebration started in typical cross-group party fashion: one circle of long-time friends each introducing themselves to another circle of long-time friends, and no one remembering anyone's name, including the company we came with. Who's Erin?

After a beer and the promise of grilled meat, everyone's chicken wire came down and mingling ensued. Once I saw there was no poultry on the grill, I let my feathers down and had more beer. After a rousing backyard tossing game, my friends and I sat down to rest our hard working limbs. Soon after, a mother hen fluttered over to our group to introduce herself and comment on our friend, Zoe's lovely baby chick.  After a question or two, she turned to me and said, "Oh, you must be the father." I instinctively slapped my wings on the chair's arms as we all echoed, "NO!" Startled, mother hen fluttered back a step as we picked our lower beaks off the ground. I have never once in my time on this earth been mistaken as a father, let alone exude any characteristics of a father. Usually the first squawk out of my beak screams, "I'm not a father!" to anyone with eyes and ears. In mother hen's defense, I hadn't said a peep before she made the assumption, and maybe she has a touch of glaucoma.

Woof.

Following the only day of the year where it's socially acceptable to eat four hot dogs, we flocked to the beach for the day. We played some aggressive games of paddle ball, which inevitably lead to that ball flying into the tents of all surrounding beach goers. They were good sports, just not good runners. After "making friends" in a few too many tents, my pigeon friend, Lizzie, and I cooled our feathers in the ocean. Once waist deep, one of our "new friends" who was in the water approached us.

"Are you guys LDS?" Asked the friendly turkey.

"Oh! No, we're not." We replied in a shocked unison.

"Oh, okay," the turkey gobbled. "I just saw three girls with nice figures wearing one-piece bathing suits, and I thought y'all might by LDS."

We smiled and she fluttered away. We cackled about this new vibe we gave on the beach, another new one. Apparently my demeanor flapping around the beach was overshadowed by my friends who chose to cover their stomachs on the beach. I didn't know one-piece swim suits screamed, "mormon!" after all these years. I wonder how many people assumed my mom was mormon when I was growing up.

My friends and I.

After being mistaken for a father and a mormon within 24 hours, I knew I had to get out of town. Sure, these hens and turkeys had only the briefest glimpse of me before they made their horribly-wrong assumptions, but no one on this planet has ever mistaken me for either of those labels. What vibe was I giving off last weekend? Were these birds blind and deaf? No matter the answers, I left the area hoping never to be mistaken for a mormon father again.

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