Believe it or not, I’d never been butt-dialed before, although my wife has so I knew what it was.
Still, I was unprepared. When I answered my cell phone “This is Bob,” I heard a light, muffled almost-nothing in response. “Hello?” I asked, listening harder. It was faint, but unmistakable: I heard the gentle cluck-clucking of chickens, probably pecking for bugs in a field somewhere. “Hello? Anybody there?” I asked again. No one but us chickens, sunning ourselves in the January spring, thank you very much, buck-buck-buck.
Then it hit me. A woman down the street, from whom I bought eggs this year until the darker and colder weather caused her flock to stop laying, had called that morning. Her hens suddenly started laying again, perhaps concurrent to a spell of days in the 60s and 70s. So she wondered if I were in the market for eggs.
A few hours later, I was butt-dialed by the Chicken Lady.
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There must be some status to this…being butt-dialed by the Chicken Lady. Not too many people have that prestige.