I used to have five chickens, Stella, Sophie, Sam, Gertrude and Emma. Gertrude died of cancer. Emma, Sam and Sophie filled the bellies of the local coyotes, one by one and in that order. So I'm left with Stella, my least favorite. STELLAAA!!
How could you have a least favorite chicken, you ask? Well, my favorite, Sam, was a beautiful Black Sexton with big brown eyes and an inquisitive, friendly disposition. She was the only one who would let me pick her up. She was the only one who would be practically under foot while I was weeding, ready to pounce on worm and bug. Stella, on the other hand, was downright obtuse. I would throw out a handful of popcorn duds- one of the their favorite treats -and while her sisters would dash over to gobble them up she would linger at a distance until it was too late. She would never let me get close to her. I thought she was simply dumb.
But the other day when I tried to herd her into the coop, she adeptly evaded me with the circle-around-the-bush technique. Then it dawned on me: She's the one who is still alive.
We seem hold the same illusions about our investments, preferring the "friendly" ones even though they don't serve us well. Shouldn't it be a clue, the billions Wall Street spends on convincing us to let them keep using and losing our money? Unfortunately, we like the risks that we're told to like, the risks that are heavily marketed to us as the prerequisites to making it big.