So a good friend of mine is putting her house on the market because she wants a place in the country where she can keep her critters out in the open, and not hidden away in a secret chamber like Anne Frank.
The realtor came by to appraise her house and saw chickens in the garage.
Told her they must go.
She has some notion that potential buyers might not want to look any further once they saw chickens in the house. Sheesh.
So anyway, needless to say, I am now chicken-sitting said poultry. I took receipt of them a couple days ago, and felt like I was part of the underground-railroad.
We quickly got them settled into the Henhouse with the others.
Others being my 13 layers, 10 meat-bird chicks, and 6 layer-breed cockarels that I had heretofore described as styrofoam packing peanuts.
We oriented them to the feed and water, and sat back chattin' like the overall-wearin', hay-chewin' farmgals that we are, and watched the hens get acquainted with their new digs.
To no one's surprise, a fight broke out between one of the newcomers and one of my Wyandottes.
Me: Do you think we should break it up?
T: No, let's see if they can resolve this on their own.
we're mothers first, chicken stewards second
And we watched them fly at each other, puff up, peck at each other's wattles and combs, and cuss at each other.
At one point, in the thick of their squabble, they both stopped and turned to look off in a corner, with one neck twisted under the other and talons outstretched mid-strike.
Me: They need a thought-bubble above them that says, "I'm gonna rip you limb-from...Look! A squirrel!"
T: I think our chickens have ADHD.
Image courtesy: SydesJokes on Flickr
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