MICHAEL & HEATHER COLLETTO

Since arriving in Grand Rapids a couple of weeks ago, we’ve been house-sitting for Lauren and Mike Befus, friends of ours who also pastor at our church. Recently, the Befus family got some chickens to keep in their yard. They also have a dog–a four-year old Goldendoodle named Cody.  Neither Mike or I ever had a dog and, contrary to popular belief, I did not have chickens in my Nebraska backyard growing up.

One morning last week, I pulled on some sweats and let the dog out the sliding back door. Half-asleep, I shuffled towards my shoes on so I could let the chickens out of their coop and into their fenced-in “run” area.  Suddenly, I heard a lot of squawking and barking and saw a chicken outside fly past the window my peripheral vision. Wait, what?

Wide awake, I booked it outside to discover that the chickens had busted the door off their coop and were roaming free.  Well, maybe not roaming. Cody, well-behaved as he is, couldn’t help but chase them. There was general chaos and running and shooing, but, in a matter of minutes, three out of the four chickens were back in their run–and happy to be there.  One of them, however, was entirely MIA.

By this time, the commotion had brought Michael outside, too.  (And probably all the neighbors.)  We began drilling each other with questions: How fast do chickens run? Where do they like to hide? Will they come back on their own? Can they fly?  With each shouted “I don’t know!” that we exchanged, we became increasingly exasperated, each of us disgusted with the other that we had not covered “Chickens’ Flying Habits 101″ in our pre-marital counseling sessions.

It had poured rain the night before and everything was soaked, especially the dog. I threw him in the garage with a quick apology before marching up and down the street in search of The Missing Chicken. Unable to resist the urge to mumble “Here, chicken, chicken” as I went, I flip-flopped down the middle of the neighborhood street, wishing I had some coffee, while Mike scoured the bushes around the house.

It suddenly occurred to me that Cody the Dog might be the best one to find the missing chicken. I sneaked him out of the garage like a (still very wet) criminal.

“Cody, where’s the chicken?” I asked with all the high-pitched excitement I use when I say “Where’s your ball?” He took off running. In a matter of minutes, we heard squawking and barking coming from the bushes at the back of the house. I’m pretty sure he was on the way to get his ball when he heard or smelled the chicken. I’m pretty sure he simply lucked out.

The chicken was way back there in the bushes, and we needed Cody to chase him out.  “Sorry, Chicken!” we yelled as we sent the half-retriever into the bushes.  There was general scuffling and, sure enough, a burst of panicked white feathers emerged from the wet bushes.

“Okay, good boy, Cody!  Now sit! Sit, Cody!” we shouted. But there is just not way you can ask a hunting animal to not chase a chicken right in front of him. Not that we found anyway.  “No, Cody!  Stop!”

All the way around the house we went: us chasing dog, dog chasing chicken, chicken chasing his happy place. Around and around, until Cody chased the chicken right back into the bushes where we found him. We wrapped our arms around the dog in his momentary confusion and grew quiet. The three of us, intertwined in an embrace, listened for the chicken in the bushes.  Not a peep. I was pretty sure it had dropped dead from sheer panic.

But a few twigs snapped and I got the courage to go into the bushes after him.  After some (literal) back and forth, I cornered him and was in a perfect position to simply bend over and grab him.  But I couldn’t do it.

See, I have this bird phobia.

“But it’s a chicken!” Mike “encouraged” from a safe distance away.

“I can’t do it!” I shouted, panic rising in my throat. “I can’t!”  I imagined the chicken pecking me and a burst of feathers and, people, my bird phobia is pretty legit.

“Nebraska up!”  Mike shouted back.

“What?”

“Get your Nebraska on!  You can do it, babe. Nebraska up!”

For such a time as this. Just like I secretly think God has made me tall to someday save a child from the window of a burning building that no one of average height can reach–I’ve had lots of practice with similar situations, like old ladies and grocery stores and jars of pickles–I realized that maybe I had grown up in Nebraska for this very moment. The chicken needed me to save the day and, with God as my witness–

“Just do it!” Mike shouted.

Gritting my teeth, I took a deep breath and grabbed the chicken as soundly as I could. He struggled to get away, but I didn’t let go.  I held on tight until he finally gave up and I lifted him above the bushes for Mike to see.

“Now help me get out of here,” I said, anxious to put the stupid bird back in his cage.

To which my God-given husband replied: “Hold on, let me get my camera!” And up the porch steps he ran, abandoning me.

When he came back, camera in-hand, Mike was met with both a squawking chicken and a squawking wife.

“But this is exactly the sort of thing we have a camera for!” he countered.

For such a time as this, indeed.

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