The Shocking Secret the Doctors Missed—And Why We Had to Call the Sheriff!
Charlie Chicken Poop (as we affectionately called him) arrived with plastic bags to cover his feet (he was wearing sandals), and a bucket. I had already set out all the tools for him, along with a face mask. Charlie, a chain smoker, spent a lot of time sitting either on our porch, or on his bucket in the chicken coop, resting with a smoke.
He brought an old gun he’d received from his father long ago and asked Brian if he could clean it, and possibly repair it. Brian considered a clean chicken coop vs. a few hours working on a gun a fair trade. (Brian and Max both cleaned and worked on the gun the following Saturday. It looked nice and clean, but it couldn’t be repaired. Charlie would need to find a gunsmith for that.)
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