Chickens seem a silly thing to be afraid of, even to me. However, phobias by definition are irrational. My grandmother got chickens when I was a child, and at first, I was very excited. I read the chicks Beowulf and C.S. Lewis. I checked on “the peeps” every hour. It was exciting. However, my balance was horrible, worse than it is now, and when the chicks graduated to chickens, things went south. They would rush to the gate, and to me, excited for cracked corn and company. It was only a matter of time until one knocked me over, and suddenly I was swarmed by hens picking and scratching at my hands, arms, and chest. Intellectually I am aware that chickens can’t really hurt me, but that early experience led to my fear and conquering it is easier said than done. Today, however, I took the first steps of dealing with them. I went into the chicken pen. Alone. Amazingly, they were scared too, and scattered to the far fence, but I went into the chicken run by myself and didn’t run out screaming. I am still of the opinion that chickens are a devious creation by Loki to torture me. Eggs for my peace of mind. We’ll see how my progress with my fear goes and if I change my mind.