Tuesday, March 1, 2011
my life has turned into a story about chickens
I went to feed the chickens yesterday. Easy. This is how it’s done.
Notice some chickens are in the garden. Say 'chicken!' to Stella (cattle dog), she chases them over the fence, except the dumb one that runs in circles. Quickly chase and grab Pearl (terrier) a placid idiot but known chicken killer. Put Pearl inside. Catch chicken. Put chicken over fence, unchain Grippy (staffy) who's using the kennel as a bum scratcher and whining he's missing out on fun.
Pearl is barking her head off inside, Stella goes nuts that Grippy is freed. Throw your hands up in the air, walk down the path and through the gate. Be accosted by 30 chickens who see the crap bucket in your hand. Wade through the chickens, trying not to kick any. Get to the shed, throw some feed onto the ground for the duck, then into the coop.
Watch the chickens run into the fence before finding the door. Notice the duck sneaking inside. Swear. Chase the remaining chickens inside. Lock the door, go in the big door, try to catch the duck. Crawl on your hands and knees chasing the duck who is quacking madly at you. Open the door, get the duck through. Stand up. Shut the door.
Try to count the chickens. Give up. Walk back to the house, check the vege patch for chicken damage. Swear again. Replant torn seedlings, replace mulch, water everything. Realise you’ve forgotten to collect the eggs. Go back to the chicken coop. Open hen box and see a clucky chicken. At great risk to your fingers, plunge your hand under the chicken and retrieve eggs. Don’t drop them.
Get back to the house. Wash hands. Breathe deeply. Write a ridiculously long account of the whole experience of feeding the chickens. Realise that you are maybe a little starved for human contact while your housemates are away and you're staying in the country alone.
Hope that you don’t seem incredibly strange. A little, ok, but not incredibly.