Mrs. Jones, deeply troubled, was consulting
a psychiatrist.

"My husband," she said, "is convinced he's a
chicken. He goes around squawking constantly
and sleeps on a large bar of wood he has fixed
up as a perch."

"I see," said the psychiatrist thoughtfully. "And
how long has your husband been suffering from
this fixation?"

"For nearly two years now."

The psychiatrist frowned slightly and said, "But
why have you waited till now to seek help?"

Mrs. Jones blushed and said, "Oh, well - it was
so nice having a steady supply of eggs."