The Chicken-less Coop – a Non-Poem
Posted by Bethaney - Tagged , , ,
The Chicken-less Coop – a Non-Poem

cartoon chickensEver since we moved into our township bungalow, Manny and I have wanted to get chickens. Squaking, egg-laying, roosting, but not rooster, chickens. Preferably in variety pack form – reds, browns, polka dots – birds that come in rainbow form in both appearance and egg production.

Because we both love eggs and hobbies, it seemed like a logical fit. (And if you’ve never had a farm fresh egg, it’s about 475 percent more delicious than those at the store.) Add in a half acre yard that’s full of bugs just waiting to be eaten via beak, and we’ve never looked back.

The problem, however, is our timing. Apparently September is the anti season for local chicks. The options are A) nothing or B) join a wait list. We could have them shipped for a hefty $40 live-freight fee, but no supplier has girl chicks guaranteed in stock. That means we could order, pay, and not see our chickens for months. A worse scenario – they could show up one at a time, quadrupling the shipping fees, and creating killing machines. Chickens are agist, not racist. Any breed of them is happy together, so long as they’re the same size. Introduce new babies into a pack of established ladies and they’ll bully the poor chick out of existence.

The Pseudo Farm Life

farm fresh eggs signLiving in the almost country has been an enjoyable adjustment. One I appreciate each day (except when the Internet doesn’t work). The heat is propane-fueled, the water is rural, but trash service is still preferred over yard fires or landfills. Like the Baby Bear of locations, it’s not too far out, but not too close to town. As far as land responsibilities, I’m taking the pseudo farmer approach here as well. I mow the yard, artificially inseminate the pumpkins, and pickle garden produce like a boss. But when a snake is rotting by the house, I lock the door and wait for Manny to come home. (He took it, along with hundreds of maggots, down to the river.)

It may be the cheating/girly way of dealing with the disgusting, but it’s also working.

By the time that workload increases to include a coop-full of poop, I’ll have an entire assortment of protective gear in tow.




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