Tag Archives: raising chickens

Really, Mom?

My baby’s got hats.  She’s got a lot of hats.  I am nuts for a knitted hat.  Or crocheted, since I don’t really know the difference.

But my baby’s also got problems.  Her head is small and her hats are big.

So while I’m waiting for her head to grow, I thought we’d try out a headband.  I’m not crazy about headbands, but decided she needed a different look rather than just her bare head.

This is what we got.

I don’t know, but there’s something vaguely familiar about those feathers on her head.

Oh, I know.  She kind of reminds me of one of these, only pink.

image courtesy of mypetchicken.com

Except of course, my baby girl is much cuter.

So, instead of toting her around looking like a white silkie rooster, I’ve decided we’ll wait for her to grow into her hats.
(and the whole world nods in agreement and sighs in relief)

Small Miracles

So why did the chicken cross the road?

To get back home from her Mexican vacation, that’s why.

Yes, it’s a small miracle, but I’ll take it.  My missing yellow chicken that I wrote about in this post here, has returned safely.

I don’t know where she’s been, I only know that she’s home.  She was lost, but now she’s found.  The prodigal hen has come to her senses and returned to her chickie mama.  And there was great rejoicing.  And a small bit of befuddlement as to where this yellow bird has been the past couple of weeks.

I have a sneaking suspicion that she’s gone broody in a place I haven’t discovered yet.  A broody chicken is a good mama chicken.  More than anything, she desires to sit on a nest of eggs and hatch them, fertilized or not.  A broody hen gets a little cranky if you try to get her eggs from the nest, she may growl (imagine that) or peck you.  Sometimes a broody hen will not even leave the nest to eat or drink.

From past experience, we have found 8-10 eggs lain here or there.  One time, we discovered a nest up on the stacked hay bales.  Another time, some kids discovered a nest out by some big round bales of hay while out playing around the place.  So, if I was a betting woman, I’d put some money down that the yellow hen has spent many days sitting on a nest of eggs somewhere around this Chicken Ranch, hoping beyond hope to hatch a few little chicks, knitting her pink and blue baby blankets……. all for naught.

Or she’s been vacationing in Mexico.  Anything’s possible, right?

A Chicken is good for a laugh or two

When we drove to a nearby city on Friday, January 27th to check into the hospital to give birth, we thought we’d only be gone a couple of days, and so we prepared for being gone only a couple of days.  But as fate would have it, it turned out to be seven.

J-Dub drove back to our home about 3 times during that week to check on things, get the mail, do a little work, overall, just tend to the things that needed to be tended to.

Of course in a situation like this, a lot of necessary tasks are overlooked for a short time, one of which being the chickens.  We left the chickens out, as is our custom, to free-range the place.  They had plenty of food and water and fresh air.  The day after we returned, I quickly went out to do a head count. Thirteen is the magic number.  But only twelve chickens did I find.  A yellow one was gone.

Naturally, I assumed the worst.  My mind returned to the coyote snatching that occurred a few months ago.  I quickly did a half-way-walk-around-the-place for any signs of demise like a plethora of feathers scattered about.  I checked the horse tanks, as we all know my chickens are fond of nearly drowning in a horse tank.  There were no signs.

I counted my losses, allowed myself a moment or two to grieve, and returned to the house.  Since then, J-Dub’s been penning them up for me at night.  Their range is no longer free.  They are jailbirds, for their own good.

Yesterday evening, a guest speaker was speaking at the church.  J-Dub was asked to play the drums for the praise and worship time.  He didn’t bother to unhook his horse trailer from his pick-up as he would be using it this morning to haul some horses to a nearby town for breeding.  Shortly before the service was to begin, I received a text from my husband informing me that a yellow chicken was in the church parking lot.  Evidently, she had hitched a ride to church in the horse trailer and then flew out once they were stopped.

Fortunately, some friends of ours recognized her and as the music was gearing up inside the church, I can only imagine our friends running around the parking lot chasing a stow-away chicken.

She was captured, trapped, and returned safely to her home later that evening.

I’m glad she’s home, and plus it gives me hope.  If one chicken can hitch a ride to church, perhaps my lost chicken is not dead after all.  Maybe , just maybe, she crossed the road and hopped a train.  Perhaps right now she’s drinking a Pina Colada in Mexico.  Living the life.   I can see her.  Beach chair, sunhat and shades, bikini, sipping on a long straw.  Because, after all, the winter’s do suck here.

The Coyote Snatching

It’s getting on sundown here at the J &A Chicken Ranch and the girls are heading in to roost for the night.   All thirteen of them. Yep, you read that right.   No typo intended.  Thirteen.  As life would have it, murder, mayhem, and malice struck the Chicken Ranch early Sunday morning past when an unsuspecting fowl fell victim to the first coyote snatching on record.  J-Dub had just stepped outdoors just shortly after dawn, when suddenly the door flew wide open, expletives filled the room, and the gun cabinet was heard opening and closing.  Sitting in the lazy boy enjoying my morning cup of java, I hurriedly asked him what in the Boone’s Farm was going on as he dashed back through the living room on his way back outside. “A coyote just got one of your chickens!”  I jumped up (as much as one can jump while 7 months pregnant) and stood in the door frame to witness a nasty, vulgar, repulsive coyote running across the pasture with a helpless, vulnerable, limp, yellow chicken hanging from his jaws. Shots were fired at the coyote.  The chicken was dropped with a poof of feathers and dust, and the coyote ran off with shots kicking up dirt behind him.  Another coyote who was off to the right watching the action and hoping to have a chicken for breakfast also ran off.  We only had  pistol handy that morning and unfortunately, a bullet never made contact with the coyote.  But in a matter of minutes, the ne’er-d0-well was back to pick up it’s abandoned meal only to be  scared off again with another round of shots.  I told J-Dub I was going to get my chicken out of the pasture.  I was not going to let that murdering cur have the satisfaction of tasting even a morsel of my golden girl.  Sparing me the task, J-Dub walked out and carried the dead bird back to the house and disposed of her. Realizing the dogs would return, I quickly penned all my hens and secured them safe and sound in their coop where they have spent the last 5 days miserably.    They were mad for a good while, and the other day I think I even caught a couple of them with a file and a saw tucked under their wings.  A blueprint drawing of the coop with arrows and lines was discovered crumpled in the corner.  It was obvious to any onlooker that plans for a Coop Break was underway, I got home early enough today to let them out for a couple of hours of exercise before dusk.  You’ve never seen such elated birds.  They ran, and pecked, and flew, and clucked.   I sat outside with a rifle not 30 feet away when dusk settled and I dared those good for nothings to sneak up to the house again. In the famous words of Scarlett O’Hara….”I can shoot straight……if I don’t have to shoot too far.” In Memory of a Yellow Chicken:

Decisions, decisions.

Decisions, decisions. 
Thankfully not life or death decisions.  More on the caliber of comfort kind of decisions.  As in “should I do an exercise tape or go to bed and read?”  And along the lines of “I just ate mac and cheese, but I really want some milk toast.” 

Do you know what milk toast is?  Does the very mention of those two words together make you throw up in your mouth?  I was raised on milk toast.   Probably not exactly correct, but the modern day version consists of toasting some bread, buttering it, putting it in a bowl, adding sugar to it, then pouring milk over it.  Hence the name Milk Toast.  So yeah, if you don’t like the idea of soggy bread, it might not appeal to you, but to me, it’s like manna from heaven.

Since the weather here has turned colder and the wind has decided to rear his ugly head once again, my walking regimen has been put on hold.  Now for a little cause and effect.  Because my walking regimen has been put on hold, my belly has increased dramatically in size in the last couple of weeks. 

So instead of eating milk toast, then going to bed and reading, I decided perhaps to blog and bore you with more uninteresting stuff like milk toast recipes. 

I’ve reached the age where my mind still says I can but my body says No Way Jose.  Case in point.

Weekend before last, J-Dub, Ashy, and I took a weekend trip to Ruidoso, New Mexico.  We were hoping to see some beautiful foliage, visit some family, have a nice weekend get-away, and find a house to live in.  Not really on that last part, but my husband is set on moving to Ruidoso.  Or anywhere close to the mountains. 

Ashy and I decided to take a little walk around the neighborhood Saturday morning, so we set out with our tennis shoes, no cell phone, and a camera for a nice little stroll on a walking trail that wound around a fenced off golf course. 

We stayed on course enjoying the weather, watching the crows that were as big as my yard chickens, and simply enjoying one another’s company. 

Before we set out, we were told that the trail was about 3.5 miles long.  Not bad.  We could handle that.  And we did.  We did just fine until our trail ended and we were on a street. We didn’t know whether to turn left, turn right, or cross over.   You might say we’d come to a crossroads.  Literally.   We lost sight of the trail and were forced with a decision, decision. So we decided we’d take a right turn since that was sort of the way we came.   After walking a few several blocks, we still had our eyes on the golf course and knew that we weren’t lost.  But then somehow we ended up behind some buildings that dead ended into the fenced off golf course again. 

All during our walk we read signs posted on the golf course chainlink fence that read:

NO TRESPASSING
VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED

But before you knew it, we found ourselves trespassing across the golf course.  We could see the trail on the other side.  There were runners, walkers, and all we needed to do was get over there to them.  It made sense that the quickest route to the trail we needed to get on, was to cross over the golf course. 

Decisions, decisions.  So we headed out walking across this golf course with elevated heart rates, not from the walk but rather from the thrill of trespassing, and all the while Ashy chanting, please don’t prosecute us, please don’t prosecute us. 

Our destination was in sight.  The trail was right before our eyes.  We had traversed the golf course and made it to the trail.  There was nothing stopping us from stepping onto it except the dadgum chain link fence that surrounded the entire golf course. 

There was no gate nearby. No doorway.  No tunnel.  We’d been walking at least 45 minutes.  My feet hurt.  I was getting warm.  I was thirsty, and I was tired of this adventure.  I turned and looked around the area behind us of which we had travelled.  Our choices were either to turn around and re-trespass over the golf course prolonging my misery or climb the chain link fence. 

Decisions, decisions.

“We’re just going to have to climb this fence.”  I told Ash.  Of course the fear of getting caught was weighing on my mind.  I thought surely no one would really harass a pregnant lady and a 12-year-old, but you never know in this day and age.  We took our chances.

We walked over by a little grove of trees away from the trail, behind some buildings which we later discovered to be the police station, and I stood while Ash positioned her sandaled foot just so-so inside the chain links and climbed up and over the fence.  I have never seen anyone climb a fence so slowly.  I was on high alert, looking around for golf carts and flying golf balls, men with badges, and passersby. 

“Hurry up!”  I snapped at her, hoisting her on the butt.  Then as she slung her leg over, of course her pants got hung on that pointy little part sticking over the top bar of the fence, and I had to wiggle it and yank on it to get her free as she gingerly positioned her feet on the opposite side and climbed herself down, safely on the non-trespassing side.

Now for my turn.  Piece of cake.  I mean how many chain link fences have I climbed  in my life?  At least 300.  Not only have I climbed my own fences,  I’ve watched COPS.  I’ve seen how criminals can get over a fence in a couple of seconds time.  My mind knew I could do this.  All I had to do was put my hands on the top bar of that chain link fence and hoist my six month pregnant self on to the bar, then swing my legs over and climb down.  

Now all I had to do was convince my body.  I hoisted.  I strained.  I grunted.  I jumped.  I stood on my tippy toes.   The fence was wobbly.  My upper body was weak.  After a few attempts, my heart rate was really elevated from the anxiety of getting caught climbing a fence and the exertion it was taking.   I was sweating.  In the mountains.  In October.

Finally, with all the strength I could muster, I hoisted and slung my leg at the same time.  I managed to get on top of the bar and laid there smashing my poor baby girl into my backbone, then flipped my legs over and let myself down.

Panting and red-bellied we limped home.  Well I did anyway.
Thankfully without prosecution.
But more than likely, the whole thing is on someone’s surveillance camera.  I hope they’re getting a kick out of it.

I think I’ll go eat some soggy bread now.

 

Chicken Drowning Averted

The fourteen chickens who run this ranch have full reign of the place.  At times, they may be found perched on the hood of a truck, sitting on a tractor wheel, or stealing the horse’s feed.  They do as they please, when they please, which is just fine with me.  I can’t bear to coop them up.  They deserve to free birds.

As long as chickens roam free, there is risk involved.  The chicken hawks, the snakes, the speeding cars on the adjacent highway.  And then there’s the horse trough.

There is a debate in the poultry world as to whether chickens can swim or not.  I didn’t know this until the other day when I was forced to.

J-Dub was tending to the animals one evening when he noticed the water in one of the drinking tubs for the horses was rather low.  As he drew near to put the water hose in, he discovered a Barred Plymouth Rock in the water.   That’s a breed of chicken for you laypersons.  The dear fowl was soaked to the skin, feathers drenched, exhausted, and very stressed. 

He rescued her from the drinking tub where she couldn’t fly out either because a) the water was too low and she couldn’t scale the top or B)because the trough is narrow and she couldn’t spread her wings fully to fly out.  We don’t know how long she treaded (is that a word) water.  But we know she was sure glad to get out of there.  I’m positive my husband coddled her and spoke soft and tender reassuring words to her.  He put he in the chicken coop where she sat dripping in a state of shock emitting a long sad whimper.  If you can imagine a chicken whimpering. 

And then he came in and told me about it. 

It could’ve been bad if he had not found her.  I worried for my sweet chicken all night, well at least until I fell asleep.  The next morning, her feathers were badly ruffled, she seemed a little tired and perhaps a bit stove up, but was no worse for the wear.  She has made a full recovery and hopefully learned a good lesson. 

I might have to put some floaties on her wings just in case.

Not really my chicken
image found at dogswhotwitter.com

Update on life

I know. I know. I know.  I’ve been bad about blogging.  It’s just that I’ve felt quiet lately.  I wonder if you can relate.  Sometimes you just don’t have much to say, until you don’t say much for too long, then you have way too much to say.  This originally short post  turned into a novel.  Sorry and thanks for bearing through. 

I dearly appreciate all of you who click over here to see what is going on in my boring little world and tell me what is going on in yours.  And the truth is I miss you. 

Here’s a recap of my life:

VACATION!!
J-Dub and I just returned from a relaxing few days in the Rocky Mountains.  The Texas Panhandle Drought of 2011 had just about beaten both of us down to a nub and we desperately needed a break. 

When we got married, we agreed that each summer we would take a vacation to a new place.  Because of money issues, we’ve tried to take a more expensive vacation every other year, and take a quick, less expensive vacation on the opposite years.  Recently, our summers have just been quick, less expensive get-aways and we almost let this summer slip past us altogether.  But we scrimped and searched, and dug under couch cushions for a few nickels and dimes and were able to have one of the most enjoyable vacations yet. 

We drove up to a place called Winter Park, Colorado.  It’s a big ski resort town in the winter, but we were looking for a cool (weather-wise) hide out and it delivered.  The drive was beautiful.  We avoided the Interstate and took the back roads.  If you’re not in a hurry, it makes the drive so much more pleasant.  We stopped for lunch and homemade pie up around Castle Rock, and I got goose bumps in the restaurant, the first of several during the weekend.  The higher we ascended in altitude, the higher our spirits seemed to lift.  The mountains were majestic, the air was fresh, the temps were comfortable, the views were breathtaking, the flowers and the colors were astonishing, the rushing streams and rivers were exhilarating.  

We ate delicious food, we hiked mountain trails, we dipped our hands in ice-cold streams, we communed with nature, and we even caught a free rock concert with Warrant and Skid Row, which  left me convinced that I don’t wish to watch another rock concert as long as I live.  J-Dub and I got more entertainment from the aged crowds reveling in their youth than we did the aged band members.  Some hoisted their small children on their shoulders and taught them how to fist pump to the beat.  But hey, to each his own.  Although it was a free concert, J-Dub and I scored V.I.P. tickets, which basically gave us two free drinks and special seating.  I owe it all to the Bob Ross  t-shirt I was wearing.  While everyone else was sporting leather and black, and skimpy t-shirts tied under their bosoms, I accidentally threw on my happy accidents that my buddy Erin gave me. 

 

When people see Bob, they know we come in peace, which in turn opens doors and happy things occur, like V.I.P. tickets at an already free concert 🙂

Our time away was much too short, but I am feeling so re-energized now.  I even turned on the water sprinkler this morning in a feeble attempt to add some color to my world here on this dry, dusty pasture.  Although J-Dub and I originally wanted to visit a new place each summer, we may just make Colorado an annual event.  What a beautiful place God spoke into existence. 

EGGS!!
While we were away on vacation, I left the chickens in charge.  They managed everything quite nicely.  I did receive a phone call from my sweet niece Ash, informing me that they were passing through so they decided to stop and check on things.  They also found three eggs. For awhile, the dear chick that had first laid her eggs, took a little hiatus after I covered up the feeder and she couldn’t nest in there any more to lay her eggs.  But then, some little niece got a bright idea to put a different bucket of feed in the henhouse, and so she began to lay again in the new bucket of feed.  This morning when I checked there were two more eggs, one in the feeder, and one in a nesting box.  Imagine my surprise to find an egg actually in a nesting box.  Then as I was moving my water sprinkler, I found 2 more eggs in a flower-pot outside!  Soon I hope to have eggs running out of my ears.  Well, not literally, but you understand I hope.  There’s no telling where I might stumble upon eggs.  It’s a good thing I learned to walk gingerly back when the snakes were causing me to pee down both legs.

PREGNANCY!!
For those who may have missed my previous post, I am really and truly, positively, absolutely, undeniably pregnant.  And doing just fine considering.  Each morning, I thank God for my health and ask Him for a healthy baby.  My biggest complaint would be exhaustion, but that is subsiding some and I may even be confusing a little bit of it for just sheer laziness.  Thank you all for the well wishes, the prayers, and the congratulations.   My sister has already bought me a package of newborn diapers.  I turned the package over and over, wondering if I should open them.  Because, as much as I know that everything is going to be just fine, there is still a deep seeded fear of the “what if’s”.  But I succumbed and I tore open the dashed perforation, and I pulled out a little diaper.  I sat amazed at the tiny size of it, and I imagined a itty bitty little baby butt fitting inside.  Whether it has boy parts or girl parts is yet to be determined.  And then I did what most moms would do.  I put that diaper to my nose, shut my eyes, and breathed in the sweet smell of a baby.  It was a sweet moment.  And a rare one I’m sure.  Soon enough, the smell of diapers will permeate this home in a most unpleasant way.  The diaper is on my bedside table still, but the powdery fresh baby smell has all but disappeared.  I know because I checked this morning.  

I’ve decided it’s all going to be okay.  I’m slowly growing into this whole motherhood thing.  In more ways than one.

I hope life is treating you kind.  Leave me a comment and tell me about it.  I’ve missed you!

Eggs!!

I peeked into the chicken feeder to see how low the chickens were getting on feed, and just take a looky-look at what I discovered.

 

Yup, eggs.  In the feeder.  Our very first crop, if that’s what you call it.  I had been checking for eggs daily, but foolish me, was looking in the nesting boxes, not in the chicken feeder.

It’s a good thing I have this handy little egg basket. 

Since there were four eggs, I assumed they might be from one hen, and have possibly been sitting in a the summer heat for a few days, so my niece and I did the egg freshness test.

When you put the egg in a bowl of water, if it sinks quickly and lies on its side, it is good to eat.  If it ever floats, it needs to be discarded.  If it sits on the bottom of the bowl, but stands up on one end, it is not as fresh, but is still safe to eat. 

All our eggs aced the test.

 

They are quite tiny.  But the chickens are only 4 months old, and I’m hoping as they mature a little more, the eggs will increase in size. 

Despite their size, they made a good breakfast. 

With a taste nothing like store-bought eggs.  Much richer.  I was a bit leery at first, wondering if it’s safe to eat the first eggs, but we did anyway, and we didn’t even get salmonella or botulism or anything.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Country Troubles

Somedays the  J&A Chicken Ranch has more excitement than my feeble heart can handle.

This beautiful breezy morning I am waiting for the water well repair man as we have no water coursing through our pipes.  The precious commodity, the life blood, the toilet flusher has seized for reasons unknown to me, but hopefully not beyond the scope of knowledge of the water well man.  In today’s America, one does not realize how fortunate and blessed we are until one does not have running water.  It is taken for granted, assumed that at the turn of a faucet, we can clean our bodies, brush our teeth, water our plants, or rinse our dishes.  No less humble does one become than having to relieve themself outside in the middle of the night, saving that one last toilet flush for the inevitable morning poop.  Forgive me, but as is life.  But yea for the man who can repair the problem and I only hope he arrives before my bowel movement decides to. 

When I first began dating J-Dub, I would ride with him to tend to his cattle.  At the beginning of the trip, he would inquire, “Are you brush broke?”  At first I didn’t know what that meant, but quickly learned when you are miles and miles from modern conveniences, there will come a time when you have to squat in the brush and piss in the pastures or you’re going to be very, very uncomfortable for a very, very long time.  Yes, I am very brush broke.

I slept in a bit this morning but knew I needed to let my fourteen dear chickens out of their coop.  Not until you’ve watched fourteen chickens come out of a coop, do you understand the true meaning of the phrase “cooped up”.  The chickens have a coop that was an old metal garden shed with a sliding door.  It sits in a side yard, up against the edge of the backyard fence, but not in the back yard.  Surrounding the shed is a chicken pen, enclosed with chicken wire, and covered mostly over the top with protective wire.   I keep the sliding door to the coop opened enough so they can come and go freely into the pen to get fresh air or take a dirt bath or something equally chickenish.  Each morning, as early as possible, I open the door to the pen and let the chickens run out so they can free range around the yard and pasture.  Our back yard and our two dogs, Drew Miller and Grace, are enclosed directly behind the chicken coop and pen.  Never have the dogs and chickens come into direct contact.  I fear it would not be a pretty sight.

When the chickens eye me coming their way, they get so excited.  They know freedom is in sight.  They will run to the corner of the pen, clucking and bocking, eager to get out.  This morning, before I was about to open the door, I heard a commotion.  It sounded like chicken feet on metal and I assumed a chicken was inside the shed, trying to jump on the metal nesting boxes as they sometimes do.  With their chicken claws slipping and sliding and feathers flapping to maintain balance, it sometimes makes quite a ruckus.  The next thing I heard was a terrible sound like nothing I had heard before.  It was the sound of a chicken in distress.  The clucking was rapid and high-pitched.  I then noticed out of my peripheral vision, the dogs were agitated. Through a crack in the gate of the backyard, I saw 3 streaks of black running past, back and forth.  First a black  chicken, followed by Drew Miller, followed by Grace.  My first thoughts went something like this: Is there a chicken in the backyard?  how did a chicken get in the back yard?  There is no way possible that is one of my chickens.  It must be somebody else’s chicken in my backyard.  Mine are all right here in the pen.  With my hand on the door to the chicken pen, ready to push it open, I glanced over and did  a quick headcount.  1-2-3-4……  1-2-3-4-5……, 1-2-3-4 I began adding quickly:  4 Barred Plymouth Rocks + 5 Buff Orpingtons + 4 Black Australorpes = 13 total chickens.  THERE’S A CHICKEN MISSING!  And it is presently in grave danger.  Immediately I began screaming NO DREW!  NO GRACE!  and with ninja like skills I flung open the backyard gate, grabbed Drew Miller by the collar and tried to get the whole party to settle down.  The dogs were having no part of calming themselves, so I drug Drew Miller by his collar over to where his leash hangs, put it on him as he jerked about, acting a fool, and I tied him to a post.  He is the dangerous dog.  He is the porcupine attacker, skunk killer, possum murderer.  He loves the kill.  Grace, a heeler, doesn’t want to hurt the chickens, she just wants to herd the chickens as she slinks down, belly close to the ground, haunches shaking, eyes fixated.  She doesn’t even wear a collar or has never experienced a leash.  She is right by your side most all the time and if she wanders too far, a quick command draws her back to her spot.   So there we were in the backyard:  Drew Miller and the blue leash wrapping  tighter and tighter around a post, a chicken petrified yet unscathed, Grace slinking beside me towards the chicken and me a little afraid to try to pick up this chicken who just might turn into a fighting, pecking, scratching defender.  The little black chicken was behind the dog’s water dish.  I gave her some time and space to see if she could find her way out of the gate on her own.  I thought of trying to corral her out, but decided that might agitate her even more.  As I reached down, she hunkered close to the ground, terrified, but allowed me to pick her up, hold her to my bosom, caress her little back.  Her feathers were hard and stiff where Drew’s slobber had already dried on them.  He obviously had his mouth clamped on her at some point. 

It was a close call. Perhaps even a miracle.  I think I’ll call her Lucky.

I still don’t know how in the world she managed to get into the back yard.  I walked through the pen and the coop looking for holes.  I can only figure that she flew out the small opening in the roof, walked across the wire roof of the pen, walked across the roof of the coop, which was the commotion of chicken feet on metal that I heard, and flew over the fence into the backyard.  

Stupid chicken.  I hope she learned a lesson.  The next time she tries to escape, she better hope I’m squatting in the yard.

The Chickens

My life has no D.R.A.M.A.
Thank God.

 I am approximately 18 days into my summer vacation and I am B.O.R.E.D. out of my G.O.U.R.D.
Thank God.
I would much rather be bored than have drama.  Hands down.

My day consists of
wakening, letting out the chickens, and going back to bed. 
Re-awakening,  checking my facebook and email, and having a little Shredded Wheat with my sugar. 
Yes, I eat Shredded Wheat.  And Raisin Bran.  And Grape Nuts.
I’m old, okay.

Occasionally, I’ll walk the drive-way a few times for exercise, catch up on DVR’d Beth Moore episodes, and perhaps kill a snake.  Okay.  Once.  That just happened once.
But it’s not as if it couldn’t happen again.

This sneaky snake was in my yard, with a friend I might add, just the other day.  You have to look closely.  He’s got the camo thing going on.  And ignore the broken flowerpot growing a weed, it’s not really marijuana, it just looks like it.  Just moments before this picture was snapped, I was standing at the tail, right there on the sidewalk, just hanging out.  I nearly peed down both legs.

Back to my day:

I don’t put on make-up or fix my hair.
I dig through laundry piles to find my cleanest, dirty shirt (name that song).
I swat flies and eat popsicle.
Then I lay down again and sleep the afternoon away until my husband’s diesel rouses me and I must scurry about as if I’ve been busy all day long.  Which it doesn’t take a rocket surgeon to figure out I haven’t.  With the piles of laundry and popsicle wrappers lying around.

That’s it.  That’s my day, every day, in a nut shell.

The highlight of which is walking to the mailbox every evening and being utterly disappointed that no one has sent me a handwritten letter.  The last letter I received was postmarked 1995.

And since my life is shrouded in a cloud of laziness and patheticism, I have nothing to offer you today (as if I do any other day) than a Chicken Update.

The chickens are 3 months and 2 days old and the ones who survived the box are still surviving.  All fourteen of the little boogers.

None have been carried off in a chicken hawk’s beak or swallowed whole by a serpent.

However, this one just spun her head around, sorry you missed it.

They all still love me very much, but only because I feed them overripe bananas and moldy bread.

Occasionally I get pecked, but it doesn’t hurt and they quit after I give them a  swift kick in the butt.  A swift and gentle kick in the butt.

Risking losing all of your respect right here and now, I must confess, I no longer know which one is Freedom.
I used to identify her by her head markings, then they changed, so I noticed 2 stripes on her tail, then they changed, then I could identify her by a jagged tail feather, then it must’ve fallen out.  She is now unrecognizable, even to her mama.  Please don’t weep. 

They won’t start laying eggs until they are 5-6 months old.  Which will put us around Aug-Sept. 

These two are already looking for the monster that laid this one.

So, how about you and your summer?  What have you done?  Are you bored yet?  What’s your favorite color popsicle? What is today, anyway?