We both duck. And as we’re checking her out through the fence, I say, “When did she get home?”
Garrett grumbles, “While you were losing it about chickens.” Then he whispers, “But hey, this’ll work great.
She’s got a basket, right? She’s probably coming out to collect eggs.”
First she had to get all mushy with that mangy mutt of hers.
She got down and nuzzled and ruffled and patted and hugged, telling him what a good boy he was.
And when she finally let him go back to sleep, she had to stop and coo at the bird Garrett had scared out, and then she started singing.
Singing. At the top of her lungs, she goes, “I’ve got sunshine on a cloudy day.
When it’s cold outsi-ye-yide, I’ve got the month of May. I guess you’d say, what can make me feel this way?
My girls. Talkin’ ’bout my little gir-ur-rls… ” She looks inside the coop and coos, “Hello, Flo!
Good afternoon, Bonnie! Come on out, punkin!The coop wasn’t big enough for her to walk in.
It was more like a mini lean-to shack that even her dog would have trouble crawling in. Does that stop Juli Baker? No.
She gets down on her hands and knees and dives right in. Chickens come squawking and flapping out,
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