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."
