Coop: (n) an enclosure, cage, or pen
When you’re six years old, life boils down to magical castles, super heroes and fire-breathing dragons.
So when my dad took me out to the little farm we maintained (so we wouldn’t appear to be city folks living high on the hog in a village of fifteen hundred people) we went for a walk through the chicken coop.
I was unimpressed.
It was not a magical castle, nor did I see much potential for a hero named Super Chicken and there were no fire-breathing dragons.
That is . . .
Until the next morning, when my dad came into the little farm cottage, ranting and raving about the fox which had slit the throats of three chickens.
Keep in mind—I was six years old and did not know what a fox was, nor had I ever seen a creature with its throat slit. All I knew was that this fox had figured out a way to burrow underneath the fence to get the chickens.
Not lacking creativity, I envisioned a creature in a black cape with huge eyes darting from side to side, who was able through mystical powers, to lower his body frame to ground level, to wiggle underneath wire, only to rise up again and run through the chicken coop with his black cape, placing some sort of elaborate necklace on the hens’ throats.
Obviously, this had nothing whatsoever to do with what my father described, and much later in life, when I realized what a fox was and how dangerous it was to have one loose in the henhouse, I grasped the literal comprehension of the situation.
But I want to tell you—my six-year-old rendition was so much better.