Yeah, they were all chickens, but what did that mean? I sure didn’t want him coming down on me again, but it still didn’t make sense.
Finally I asked him, “You mean there’s no rooster?” “Correctomundo.” “How can you tell?”
He shrugged. “Roosters strut.” “Strut.” “That’s right. And look – none of them have long feathers.
Or very much of that rubbery red stuff.” He nodded. “Yeah. They’re definitely all chickens.”
That night my father got right to the point. “So, son, mission accomplished?”
he asked as he stabbed into a mountain of fettuccine and whirled his fork around.
I attacked my noodles too and gave him a smile. “Uhhuh,” I said as I sat up tall to deliver the news.
“They’re all chickens.” The turning of his fork came to a grinding halt.
“And… ?” I could tell something was wrong, but I didn’t know what.
I tried to keep the smile plastered on my face as I said, “And what?” He rested his fork and stared at me.
“Is that what she said? ‘They’re all chickens’?” “Uh, not exactly.”
“Then exactly what did she say?” “Uh… she didn’t exactly say anything.”
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