From Fluffy Butts to Fake Blood: Life Lessons Continue

The Dekker Peckers have been busy.

Thanks to Rooney—our pint-sized, loudmouthed rooster with the heart of a lion and the libido of a frat boy, our coop is now ground zero for future fluffiness. I’ve got a dozen eggs incubating in my meditation room, and if all goes well, we’ll have mini Rooneys hatching in just a few weeks.

Domino, our black and white hen, thinks she’s helping by sitting on eggs in the coop. But let’s just say she doesn’t quite have the 21-day attention span required for motherhood. She’ll commit for five or six days, then abandon ship and hop to another nest like it’s a brunch buffet.

So I’ve literally got her tail feathers covered by handling incubation duties myself. We’re on day five, and the new incubator is holding strong. Candling day is coming up soon, when we’ll peek inside the eggs to see which ones are actually fertilized.

Rooney, if you’re reading this (and honestly, I wouldn’t put it past you to learn how), I’m rooting for you, buddy. Your legacy is almost secure.

While the Eggs Bake, Let There Be Murder

Even with fluffy butts and future chicks on the horizon, sometimes you need a little something else to break the monotony.

Enter: Murder.

I recently went to the Great Smoky Mountain Murder Mystery Dinner Show in Pigeon Forge with a few friends. The show was called Killer Prom, and it was every bit as ridiculous as it sounds. Think: bad wigs, prom dresses from the Reagan era, and four actors rotating through more characters than a Marvel crossover.

The food? Fine, if you’re into dry chicken and mysterious sauces. But I wasn’t there for the culinary experience.

I was there for the murder.

And I wasn’t disappointed.

A Sugar Mama and a Side of Hope

The real highlight of the night wasn’t on stage. It was at our table.

I was seated next to an 88-year-old woman and her 86-year-old husband. She still works. He’s retired. He called her his sugar mama, and without missing a beat, she said:

“He doesn’t get any sugar until he finishes his honey-do list.”

Cue the laughter. And also the hope.

These two were playful, sharp, and clearly still enjoying each other after six decades of marriage. A real-life love story dropped into the middle of a goofy murder plot. Relationship goals? Absolutely.

Lessons from Eggs and Octogenarians

So what do fertilized eggs and elderly flirts have in common?

Turns out, a lot.

They’re both about possibility. About sticking around long enough to see what hatches, what grows, what love still exists in unexpected places. They’re reminders that progress doesn’t always look like instant success. Sometimes, it’s a warm spot in a meditation room. Or an old couple who still flirts like teenagers at a fake prom.

Me? I’m trying to stay open to all of it—the slow hatching, the bad dinners with good company, the writing slumps that just need a bit more fluff and a little more patience.

And if all else fails, I’ll do what Rooney would do: dust off my fluffy butt, puff out my chest, and keep chasing whatever comes next.

What About You?

Have you ever had a Rooney moment—where you just kept going, even when life bucked you into the bushes?

Or maybe you’ve met a real-life sugar mama who gave you relationship hope at a weird dinner show?

Tell me about it. I’d love to hear your stories. Drop a comment, shoot me a message, or just nod quietly to yourself while reading this in your bathrobe. That counts too.