Why do they do it?

Rented a couple of movies yesterday. Here are my reviews:

"Sherlock Holmes" Sherlock as an action hero? Works for me.

"Alice in Wonderland" Alice as an action hero? Oh hell, why not?

I wanted to rent "The Wolfman" (Hombrelobo or Lobohombre, I'm not sure which is correct.) but the video store didn't have it yet. Bummer. (Does anyone other than Yers Truly still say bummer?) Benecio Del Torro stars. I wonder if the director will make the Wolfman an action hero. Might as well. No point in bucking the trend.

(Pause to obtain third cup of coffee, the equivalent of jumper cables to the brain. "OKAY, TRY IT AGAIN. er-er-er-er-er-er. STILL NOTHING.)

I'm only writing this blog because the three that precede it are long bits and I wouldn't want someone stumbling on to Monkeymind to think they are all like that. "Don't read this guy, Dear, he drones on and on."

So there I was walking contentedly along, if by contentedly I mean desperately trying to hold my dogs in check, when a chicken crossed the road in front of us. (Why do they do that?) The dogs, Raffi and Matti, shown in the pictures at the left of this blog as benign and adorable Cockers, are in actuality born fowl killers. The sight of feathered prey audaciously trotting to their fore caused them to lurch into ferocious action with said lurch having the additional consequence of dumping me on my ass, dog leashes yanked from my hands. I need mention here that this human/canine comedy took place directly in front of an Indian abode in whose doorway stood one of its many occupants, a man. In the briefest moments of time it took me to gather my senses from wherever they had gone and to determine I was mostly uninjured, while simultaneously shouting "NO NO" loudly at my little beasties, the foul fowl was pinned to the road and somewhere in the distant background of my mind I could hear Howard Cosell dramatically shouting, "Down Goes Frasier." As I gradually regained my footing and rushed too late to the chicken's rescue, I shouted to the man in the doorway, who, I also need add, never moved a muscle throughout the drama taking place in front of him, that I would pay for the chicken. I presumed it was his. "Lo siento, Senor, yo pago para la gallina." This was not the correct verb tense, but I'm sure he got the idea as I had, in fact, paid for dead chickens in the past. I gathered up the dog leashes in my hand while scolding my mutts loudly to impress the onlooker, knowing, of course, my words were in the wasted category as my Dog is not as good as my Spanish and proceeded down the road. After a half dozen steps or so, I was compelled by curiosity even knowing what that does to cats, to look back over my shoulder and see the carnage left behind. To my amazement, there was the chicken rising to its feet, shaking out its feathers and continuing its journey across the road. I thought two things: there's a chicken with a tale to tell and, Alrighty Then, I've just saved a buck!