cock-a-doodle don't

Remember Crockpot Roy? The rooster that decided my daughter was public enemy number one? Yeah, he's still alive. I'd like to say he's playing it cool these days, and I guess in some small way, he is. He didn't try to attack Alexa when she came home last night, but then again, he was sleeping. And about that? He sleeps less than I do. And when he's not sleeping, all nineteen...twenty hours of the day and night, he's crowing. At the top of his lungs. Cock-a-freaking-doodle do.

He has officially surpassed Clooney as the most annoying rooster of the decade. He doesn't just crow, either. He likes to do a duet with Siegfried, the other adult rooster in residence. They start their show at four am, on the dot. And like a rousing rendition of dueling banjos, or Lambchop's song that never ends, they keep going long after the sunrise. In fact, they keep going past lunch, on through dinner, and don't stop until it's lights out for chickens. And those blissful few hours when Crockpot Roy and his buddy Ziggy are sleeping? Farmyard gold.

I guess that's just one of the many perks of living on a farm. Or being a judge on American Idol. You get stuck listening to the ear-numbing sounds coming out of good intentioned roosters, preening for attention.  But unlike Simon Cowell, I can actually serve mine for dinner.

Hear that Roy? Keep it up and you'll be auditioning for Crockpot factor.  The marinated edition.

Until the next time...I'll be grabbing what sleep I can before the next show. 

murder on the farm

The sun had barely crested the horizon when the anguished crow sounded from the side yard. I lifted my head from the pillow to listen. My husband did the same.

"What was that?" I asked, as I struggled to focus on the clock. "It sounded a lot like a turkey."

"No, that sounded like Chester!" My husband bolted out of bed, grabbing his pants and boots on his way to the back door, calling out to me as he went. "I think the fox might have gotten him." 

I hurried into my own boots to follow him, but we were too late. We found Chester crumpled in the tall grass, his breathing labored and his neck broken. All but dead, with no hope of survival.  

This was no fox attack. No self-respecting fox would leave such a mouthwatering meal uneaten. This was the work of an unknown ninja attacker.  Poor, poor Chester.

Once Chester's last breath had been taken, we said a few words over his body.

"Should we go ahead and pluck him?" My husband asked.

My mouth dropped open and I stared at him. "Pluck him? What do you mean, pluck him?" 

He shrugged. "Well, we might as well eat him." 

There was no way I was eating that bird. He had just fought off an attacker in the yard. An attacker bound and determined to kill as many chickens as it could. He saved all but one, but suffered a mortal wound in the process.

Chester was a hero. A hero deserving of a eulogy.

Chester A Rooster

Sometime in 2010 or 2011 - July 22, 2013

Devoted husband, father, and friend

Chester A. Rooster was born in captivity. For much of his young life, he knew nothing outside of the small pen he was housed in. He didn't know how to beg for bread, didn't know how forage for bugs and grasses, in fact, he knew very little. But after we took him in, he quickly found his gift. His lush golden feathers and sweet demeanor easily made him the favorite of the hens on the farm. He made friends with the ducks (before the fox ate them) and even befriended the pigs.

In fact, it wasn't uncommon to find Chester perched on the back of one of the pigs for the night. There were times when he spent weeks on end in the pig pen. Oh sure, it was mostly because he forgot how to get out once he'd gotten in, but that didn't seem to dampen his spirits at all. All the way to the end, he was a kindhearted, dingbat of a bird.

Chester is survived by three wives--Henrietta, Henny Penny, and Mrs. McGillicuddy. He was the father to ten children--Lucy, Maude, the late Ethel (also lost to a possible ninja garden gnome) Biscuit, Buffy, Lucy 2, and three as yet unnamed daughters. He will also be missed by several other chickens, two pigs (until next week when they go to the big freezer in the sky) and thirteen turkeys (that never actually met him, but would have loved him if they had.) Taking over from Chester will be Siegfried and Roy, our two young Aseel roosters. They may be fighting game cocks, but they're as docile as Chester, and only half as brave. They have their work cut out for them if they want to fill his...um...feet?

Also lost in the early morning melee was one of our prized Silver Dorking hens. She didn't have a name (they all sort of look a like) but she had a sweet personality. She, and her eggs, will be missed. 

If we could have just a moment of silence for the dead. 

Until the next time...I'll be shopping for a new rooster. 

who put the B in BLT?

How many times have you eaten a ham sandwich, or bacon and eggs, and thought about where your food came from? And I don't mean your refrigerator, your freezer, or the nearest fast food restaurant.

I'll admit, before I moved to the farm, I rarely did. I ran through the drive-thru at McDonald's and ordered my food without a care in the world (other than making sure they didn't put pickles on my burger.) But after raising five piglets up to market size, I see things from a totally different perspective.

Actually, it was when our chickens laid their first egg. That egg represented food raised right on my farm. It was the best egg I'd ever tasted. And anyone who's ever eaten truly farm fresh eggs will likely agree with me. And I'm not talking about those grocery store packaged eggs claiming to be cage free or free range. Don't believe the hype. Those chickens aren't really free.

Free range chickens

Our chickens roam free.  Just ask my neighbors. My hens are frequently found standing on their front porch, knocking on the door, looking for bread handouts, like the little beggars they are.  Other than stale bread from next door, they eat grass, and bugs, and whatever else chickens eat in the wild. We give them a little grain to supplement (and to ensure they keep coming home) but they mostly forage for their food. 

It's the same with the pigs. They forage in the field, living the good life. Oh, we give them food too--they've practically eaten everything there was in the pasture--but it's always healthy food. No candy for our pigs. I'm not sharing my chocolate with anyone.   

See pig run

Unlike factory farms where the animals are kept confined on concrete, our animals have free rein within the confines of the fence. And they've all been known to roam outside the lines.   Basically, they're treated like family...sort of.  I mean, I'm not in the practice of eating my family. And I'll admit, when we cooked up our first rooster, Clooney, I felt like I was on that TV show, Fear Factor. It was like I was eating a friend, or something. But by the time we had Napoleon for dinner, I was over it. He was the best pork roast I'd ever eaten.

So, I'm sure you're wondering what I'd say to the question, "How can you eat your pets?" 

My answer is simple. I would never eat my pets. My dog is like my child, for crying out loud. In fact, my kids would probably say I like the dog better. It's not true. Well, mostly not true. Ok, it might be a little true. But that's only because the dog is home and the kids have their own lives. And the dog never talks back. Or asks for money.  Or steals my last root beer.

As for the pigs? They drew first blood when they tried to eat me. After that, all bets were off.

Until the next time...I'll be fattening up the last two pigs. 

pigs, pullets and pumpkin seeds

We've just passed the halfway mark in July, which also marks the halfway point for summer, meaning not just July, but all of summer is half gone. But worse than that, I've missed another pumpkin planting deadline.

For the countless year in a row, I've forgotten to plant the pumpkin seeds. Just like the Christmas cards I buy each November--then write out and address but never mail--I've stocked up on pumpkin seeds, yet again, that will never find their way into the dirt. Which means I will be buying my pumpkins from the farmers market again, instead of watching my very own seeds grow into mighty pumpkins before my eyes.  

I have just one thing to say about that...crap.  

I've lost track of how many years I've wanted to plant my own pumpkins. Ever since the year a rotting jack-o-lantern ended up in the compost heap and we discovered an entire pumpkin patch growing in the back yard. Totally in the wrong season, I might add.

I was sure I would have a proper pumpkin patch once we moved to the farm. I had my rows of seeds lined up on the counter, just waiting for someone to dig me a hole. Oh, I know what you're thinking, "go dig your own hole," right? But it doesn't take a genius to realize I'm not cut out for digging holes or preparing planting beds. I'm more of a  director . I'm the one who says, "no, a little more to the left, honey. That's it! Now back to the right...just a little more." Then I drop the seeds in the hole and push the dirt back over them. I'm really good at pouring stuff on the ground. Just ask the chickens. I'm their favorite feeder. Even the little pullets (young hens for you non-farm people out there) follow me around outside. They know I'm good at dumping the grain on the ground, but when it comes to serious farm stuff, it's time to call for the hus...I mean, the IDP.

Of course, even the virile IDP needs help from time to time. Just this weekend, I assisted in building the TCU (transport containment unit) to take the first two pigs to the giant freezer in the sky. I did an excellent job holding the wood panels while he screwed them together then secured them to the flatbed trailer. I even made design suggestions. Just between us, I had way better ideas, but you know men, you have to make them think it was their idea...shhhh.  

But when it comes to planting, I'm going to defer totally to him. That way, when it all goes to shit, it wasn't my idea. Speaking of shit...I may just dump the damn seeds in the pig pen. There's plenty of fertilizer in there. In fact, I'll bet pumpkins would grow like weeds in there. And the worst thing that could happen is nothing happens. Who knows, I might even end up with super-pumpkins. I could win a ribbon at the fair or something.

Or I could be stuck with the stinkiest pumpkins in Georgia. But at least I'd have pumpkins! 

Until the next time...I'll be lining up my seeds for planting day.

jimmy crack corn and I don't care

If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times. I'm a writer...not a farmer. And yet, no matter how many times I've stated (rationally, without tears or temper tantrums) that I would not be taking over "farmer" duties, I still find myself out there dealing with every pigtastrophe that comes along. So why am I surprised that on the eve of piggy's last supper I find myself aiding and abetting the resident farmer (also known as IDP around here)  as he reinforces the transport vehicle for the trip to the giant freezer in the sky? Who knows.

I suppose I did sign up for this when I agreed to live on a working farm, didn't I? So I guess that's why I found myself at the grocery store at ten o'clock tonight, buying magic feed corn (more specifically, animal feed corn that seems to work like magic when trying to capture escaping pigs.) I wasn't happy about it, but I kept a smile frozen on my lips the whole time I searched the store for said feed corn.

Though, I'm fairly certain anyone in my immediate vicinity scattered, spreading like the red sea before Moses, as I wandered though the aisles, singing quietly to myself.

"Gimme crack corn, or I'll hit you with my cart...gimme crack corn or I'll hit you with my cart..."

There were a few other verses, but I won't go there.  Not now that I've finally calmed down. Especially since we did manage to catch one of the pigs and got it safely loaded it into the trailer. Oh, and IDP finally got bit by one of the pigs--hard enough to leave a mark--so after all these months of complaining about the evil pigs, I feel vindicated.

We still need to capture one more in the morning so we can take two in this load. This is my least favorite part about living on a farm. It's right up there with having to bury a baby chick that died of natural causes in the night. But that's the cycle of life I guess. And I can at least sleep easy knowing the animals raised on my farm are given the best possible lives while they're here. I mean, how many chickens do you know that got to watch the Dancing with the Stars finale from the front porch? Not many, I'd guess.

Until the next time...I'll be chasing pigs one last time (hopefully!) 

float like a butterfly, perch like a chicken

Ok, so Ali actually said, "...float like a butterfly and sting like a bee..." but since I'm not writing a post about bees, I figured my edit was appropriate. As usual, I'm writing about chickens. But it's not the typical..."aren't they cute sitting on the sofa watching the vegetarian cooking show?" No, this time I'm tackling something a bit more serious.

Chicken on chicken violence. 

That's right, my sweet little chickens have turned into scrappers. And why is that? Simple. The resident farmer (you know...IDP?) took away the table they were roosting on because he didn't want them sitting in the kitchen window anymore. 

The problem is they didn't get the memo--or maybe they just couldn't read it--but either way, they weren't giving up the primo spot with the kitchen view. Even after one of them gave up and settled on sleeping outside my bathroom window, that still left seven chickens to squeeze on two narrow kitchen window sills, with no table for the overflow.

I stood there, watching chickens pecking chickens, knocking them, one by one, off the window until I couldn't take it anymore. But since I was forbidden to bring back the table, I was forced to improvise.

And this is why I have a row of chickens sleeping on two saw horses outside my kitchen window. And one chicken perched on the front porch bench. And one outside my bathroom window. This doesn't even count the chickens that go the traditional route and perch in the coops, or on the back of the pigs. (Yes, I have a rooster that sleeps on one of the pigs.)

What can I say? What my chickens lack in sense, they make up in creativity! But would you expect any thing less? 

Until the next time...I'll be watching the turkeys perch on the water bottles and the feeders in their baby pen. 

rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated

Yeah, I know...I totally skipped the blog yesterday. It's not like me, and yet, I've been caught doing just that a whole lot lately. It's really not intentional. Ok, so maybe a little intentional. Life gets busy, and stuff happens, and there are coppertones ALL OVER the place. (See Stephen's guest post from yesterday if you don't get the joke.) 

Basically, I'm a serial procrastinator. I told my hus...I mean, the IDP...that if I took a day off from blogging, I'd never get back to the every day habit. And I was right. Not that I'm happy to be right, in this particular case.  But there is some precedence for this. That time he told me to just give my diet a break and allow myself to cheat now and then, well, that blew my diet right out of the water. Why? Because one must learn to listen to their own gut. Or maybe that's just me. I need to listen to my own gut and stop being led astray by imaginary dead presidents with no stake in my dilemmas.

So, here I am, trying to make up for that missed day by writing something epic, and all I end up with is a bitch session about how it's not my fault I procrastinate (and yeah, I know it totally is, but where's the fun in taking all the blame?)

I blame the chicken sitting outside my bathroom window like a...a...peeping Tom. Wait...this is a peeping tom...tom turkey that is. 

Baby Tom, peeping at me.

This is a chicken peeping through the bathroom window.

Peeping Hen.

Until the next time...I'll be posting another guest post...cuz, it's actually time for one. 

spring is for babies

Sometimes I forget I live on a farm. Oh sure, I have chickens wandering in the back door on an almost daily basis, pigs eyeing me like a fresh baked pie, hay dust in the backseat of my car, and the assorted smells of a working farm wafting through the air...but yeah, sometimes I still forget. Then something miraculous happens that reminds me why I moved here.  And how much I love it.

Saturday morning the hubby and I headed out to the coop to collect the daily eggs and roust the brooding hen out to eat before her chicks were due.  Hubby opened the door and yelled, "Oh no!" He said our mama chicken had been taken, likely by a fox, and all that was left of her eggs were the shells.

I nearly cried on the spot. I'd been so proud of our chicken for being such a good mama, raising her three little ones over the winter, then sitting on a new clutch of eggs this spring. ​I was heartbroken that she was gone.

And then my hubby yelled, "There she is! And she has babies with her!"​

Our little mama was coming around the back of the pig pen, eight fuzzy chicks trailing behind her as they made their way around the yard. It was the most exciting thing I'd seen in ages. ​Five little black chicks and three yellow. Babies...born right here on the farm.

We moved quickly to collect the chicks and their mama before any harm could befall them--the yard is a dangerous place for tiny babies--setting them up in a temporary pen until we have the permanent pen finished. And then I just sat back to observe. The miracle of life is an exciting thing to behold.

Until the next time...I'll be chick watching!​

just another day on the farm

​Here's another photo blog summing up the last few crazy days on the farm.

Chicks dig the dog

Oh no! Another breakout! Whatever shall we do?​

Escaping pig!​ You'd better run...Indy's on the job!

"That piggy's not supposed to be in the yard, is he?"

This little piggy cried, "Wee, Wee, Wee!" All the way home.​

And the mighty hero rests with his fan club.​

a day in pictures

Marauding pigs. Obnoxious chickens. Haunted attics. Scary basements. This is what I deal with on a daily basis at the farm. Sometimes I'm at a loss for words to explain it, so I figured a picture was worth a few hundred words...right?  ​

The scary barn at the haunted farm...​

From adorable little piglets...​

Ginormous pigs will grow!​

I see you!​

I'm still watching you!

From little chicks...a mother hen will grow.​

From little puppies...​

Giant ponies grow...

From a barren pasture...a fertile farm will grow.

Ok, so I might have cheated today. Not much to say, but I was asked to share more pictures, so here you go! I hope you enjoyed it. ​

Until the next time...I'll be back to writing!​

the tale of the dimwitted rooster

​I've never been one of those parents who thinks their children are without flaws. Despite their natural born intelligence, I frequently find myself gaping with astonishment at their foolish choices. But as often as they make mistakes, I see progress. I see them growing into mature, responsible adults...and I might even live to see the day they actually reach that goal.

This is the major difference between human children and beloved pets. ​

My dog is like a giant toddler who will never grow beyond his three year old mentality. He knows at least a hundred words, cheese and carrots being two of his favorites, but he'll never have a job. Never move out and live on his own. Never speak more than the rudimentary vocalizations that sound a whole lot like, "Momma." But as simplistic as he is, I love my dog.

My rooster is another story.​

Chester A. Rooster. The name seemed to fit when we gave it to him. He was already grown when we brought him home, but we had high hopes for him, nonetheless. And truly, as roosters go, he hasn't been a bad one. He managed to fertilize the eggs that hatched in January, giving us three lovely chickens to add to our flock. But beyond that, he's the dumbest bird I've ever laid eyes on. ​

This crazy bird clucks like a hen. All day long. He mimics the hens in their clucking as if he's one of the girls. I'm almost embarrassed for him. If we had other roosters, he would undoubtedly be the laughingstock of the bunch. I mean, he does know how to crow, but he rarely does. And unlike the last rooster we had, he doesn't cock a doodle do at all hours of the day or night. That simple fact, and his obvious fertility, are the only things saving him from the chopping block. ​Now he's managed to figure out how to escape from the fenced area, but can't figure out how to get back in. He has all of the remaining chickens roosting with him outside the containment area at night, where the garden gnome/fox can get them. I only hope the fox is fooled into thinking they're all inside the fence.

I guess the moral of the story is don't kill your roosters before the replacement has been fully vetted. The last rooster had his issues, but he was a bad ass chicken that could hold his own in a fight. Not the chicken shit rooster we have now that's afraid of his own shadow, and prances around the yard like...like Big Bird from Sesame Street. ​

Ah...such is life on the farm.​

Until the next time...I'll be watching for missing chickens.​

the chocolate apocalypse

Well, we've lived here on the haunted farm for a whole year. I don't remember the exact date we moved in, but I measure our time here by Easter. That was when we got our first bunch of baby chicks and officially became a working farm.

As a young girl I used to get so excited for the arrival of Easter. It always meant a new dress and a pretty bonnet for church. (And of course, a basket of candy from the “giant bunny”.) And when my kids were growing up, I was torn between that same nostalgic excitement, and something akin to horror as roamed the apocalyptic scene at the local Walmart on the night before Easter, fighting old ladies in wheelchairs for the last few chocolate bunnies and peanut butter eggs in the entire store. This because I’d either completely forgotten about Easter until then, or already eaten the previously purchased candy. And the scene was a cross between a Mad Max movie and the original Willie Wonka and the chocolate factory.

Mad Max and the chocolate apocalypse.

Of all the things I miss…that wasn’t one of them. So as sad as I was to realize last year would be the first year I failed to do Easter baskets for the kids (most of which are actually adults who don’t really care if I buy them candy) I was secretly delighted I would be spared a trip to Walmart on the Saturday before Easter.

Imagine my horror as I somehow managed to find myself exactly there…Walmart! At ten o’clock at night. On the night before Easter. With all the other zombies trolling for chocolate bunnies and peanut butter eggs.

But I wasn’t shopping for candy. I was shopping for a light bulb.

Let’s rewind. Mike and I rolled out of bed (reluctantly) at seven am on the day before Easter. We were having a garage sale (which also means the weather was much better last year than this year...it's far too cold for garage sales) and we were thrilled to be getting rid of our junk…I mean stuff…for some extra cash. It was a good morning…we sold a lot. We even met the neighbors.

This is how I know were really and truly living in the country.

I actually witnessed…as in heard with my own ears…a grown man say the word do-dong. You might remember I wrote about a dongle a few years back, and as funny as the word dongle sounded, it wasn’t what I thought it was. Well, this time it was exactly what I thought it was. The context is somewhat important. My husband was pulling a vine from under the porch when the neighbor (a man in his late fifties to early sixties) said (and I’ll write this out phonetically because it’s way funnier that way) “That thar is posen (not poison…posen) ahvy. You don’t want none a' that. And ya best not touch yer do-dong before you wash yer hands.”

Yep, you heard (err…read) that right. “Ya best not touch yer do-dong…” Well, I agreed wholeheartedly. You do not want posen ahvy (or poison ivy for that matter) on your do-dong. I don’t have a do-dong myself, but if I did, I’m certain I wouldn’t want poison ivy on it.

Funny accents aside, he’s a sweet man, my neighbor. And oh so thoughtful, thinking about my husband’s do-dong like that. Not many men are secure enough in their manhood to mention such things out loud. And here, a year later the man feeds my chickens when they wander to his yard to visit. And hey, thanks to him, the do dongs around this house have been posen free for a whole year.

So, I guess you’re wondering what drove me to Walmart (and a twenty minute drive to reach said Walmart, by the way) for a light bulb, on the night before Easter? Well…with our garage sale proceeds, we went to the local feed store and bought eight baby chickens. We needed a light bulb to keep them warm at night. And they seem to be toasty warm, indeed.

Until the next time…I’ll be listening to this year's not-so-baby chickens peeping in the back room.

musical chickens

Of all the times I've said, "I wish I'd gotten this on video," this one stands out. I really wish I'd gotten this on video.

I've decided the best entertainment in town is found in my sun room where our mother hen, Henny Penny, is raising her three little chicks under the watchful eye of my drooling Mastiff. Now, this is not my first rodeo...we've raised chickens before...but this is the first time we've done it with an actual chicken for a mother. Last time we brought home a box full of chicks and put them in a pen with a heat lamp, food and water, and listened to them peep the night away as they cuddled to each other to sleep. The dynamic has changed with the introduction of a parental figure. And I'm suddenly not feeling so bad about the way I raised my kids.

Like an episode of Benny Hill, or the keystone cops of the silent movie era, the chicks ran around the pen, like cartoon characters in fast motion, as the mother hen spun around in a circle, trying to corral her young under her wings for nap time. Keeping the two unhatched duck eggs between her legs, she made several attempts to sit, but the chicks continued to run circles around her as she squawked and flapped her wings at them. I had tears running down my face as I watched the show, wondering how long before the babies got tired, or the mother gave up. When she finally got them relatively settled, they took turns jumping on to her back only to slide down again.

I had no idea baby chicks were such rebels.

I'm going to try to catch them on video tomorrow. I can't promise anything. The little buggers move pretty quickly, but I'll do my best. You've just got to see this.

Until the next time...I'll be watching the show.

new babies!

After weeks of watching our sweet little Henny Penny sitting on eggs we weren't sure would ever hatch, we found a peep in the cage with her. Then a little while later, there were two...and three. Well, I think there are three. She's still hiding them under her wings and since we only ever see two at a time, I can't be 100% sure. But I'm thinking there are three. We'll know in a day or so when they get big enough to wander freely through the cage.

I know it's still, technically January, but there's just something about new babies that makes me long for spring. And maybe having a few new chicks around will make the wait seem a lot less unbearable. And while I'm at it, a few potted orchids would brighten up the place. I could bake frosted flower shaped cookies too. Put away the last of the Christmas stuff.

Oh, yeah...the Christmas stuff. That really needs to be done before I jump to spring, doesn't it? I've officially moved it to the top of my to-do list. Put away the last of the Christmas stuff before it's time to take it back out again.

And then I'm making cookies!

Until the next time...I'll be watching for more chicks to hatch!

death of a rooster (clooney's last crow)

Well, it finally happened. Clooney’s number was up, his days ran out, and his chips were cashed in. I’d like to say he went out like a man, but the truth is he went out like a crazed chicken, screeching like a little girl staring down the business end of a spider. And, well…I would have tried to save him, but the whole thing happened so quickly I didn’t even realize it was going down until the deed was done.

The first scheduled execution at the haunted farmhouse.

Baby ClooneyThe sad end to Clooney’s tale (or tail depending on your point of view) was actually set in motion last weekend when Mike and I ran across a full grown rooster for sale in the breed Mike wanted (a buff orpington for chicken lovers out there). Chester (the new resident cock) will make perfect chicks with the ummm…errr…chicks around here. So for the bargain price of five dollars cash (counted out in coins because who carries cash anymore?) we had ourselves a new stud for the fock. Unfortunately, this addition didn’t go over so well with the current big man on campus and we witnessed our first ever cock-fight in the yard. It wasn’t nearly as exciting as I thought it would be, and I found myself torn as to who to root for. In the end, it didn’t matter. Chester was in. Clooney was out.

As it turns out, poor Clooney’s days were numbered from the minute he came out of his shell. He wasn’t supposed to be a rooster. And like Mike said from the day we realized he was exactly that, “Well…he’ll make a good crock pot meal.”

Of course, I fought for the big cock right from the get go. He may not have been the right kind of rooster, he might have even been a big dick most of the time (crowing at all hours of the day and night with no regard to normal rooster schedules) but he was my rooster, and I wanted to keep him.

Clooney last weekSo the Save Clooney campaign was born. People from all over the world wrote in, begging for Clooney’s life (and a few asking for the recipe we intended to use if we cooked him). The neighbors even seemed to like him, despite his tendency to go off like a broken alarm clock.

But sadly, in the end, no amount of petitioning or begging would save the little pecker from the executioner (my husband). And now it would seem instead of feeding Clooney dinner, we’ll be having Clooney for dinner sometime in the near future.

So here’s to you Clooney. You were a damn good rooster…I hope you’ll make a damn good chicken stew too!

Until the next time…I’ll be making room in my refrigerator for one of my favorite pets.

think like a cartoon

The weather outside has been frightful. And despite temperatures at night dipping below freezing, our crazy birds (chickens and ducks) have stubbornly decided to brave the cold and snub the shelter. This has forced my husband to catch them and force them into their warm houses. Or should I say try. That’s the key word. He’s trying to catch them. They aren’t cooperating with that plan. In fact, we now have four rogue chickens roaming the yard. Four hens that refuse to be caught.

I threw my hat into the ring this evening and pulled out the chicken crack (a loaf of bread) and attempted to coax them into the coop with the others, to no avail. Those broads are totally not interested in warm and cozy. They want to be free.

It’s time to break out the big guns. And no, I’m not suggesting we shoot them. But we need to catch them. And soon.

We need to start thinking like a cartoon. You know…like Wile E. Coyote.

And trust me, I’m on it. But I really need an Acme chicken trap…or a giant net maybe. Because seriously…these chickens have totally studied the Tao of the Road Runner. I’m on a constant look out for an anvil to drop out of the sky and squash me where I stand. Don’t laugh…it could happen. I can only hope I would survive as gracefully as the coyote has over the years. Somehow, I don’t think I would.

From here on out, I need to tread lightly. Think carefully. Plan thoroughly. And look up Acme products online. I’m not taking any chances.

Until the next time…I’ll be hunting chickens!

downpours, dead mice and demented ducks

I have come to the undeniable conclusion that I have a very odd existance. Not odd in a bad way…like, “Gee, did you eat a lot of paint chips as a child?” Or, “Wow, I don’t know what you’re on, but I’d like some of that.” No, odd in a different way. A sort of fun way, once I have a bit of distance from the day to look back on it. Like today. What a freaking weird day today turned out to be.

It started out normal…mundane really. My daughter was feeling sick, so after everyone else in the house had gone to work, she came storming into my room, fuzzy blanket in tow, and announced that she was sick, and bored, and would be watching TV in my room. This required a trip to the living room to swap out the only good batteries from the other Dish remote so we could actually watch TV in my room. Then, instead of getting a few hours of much needed sleep, I found myself watching Hairspray with my sick daughter…and the dog. Because the dog can’t have anyone in my bed unless he’s stretched out between us, making sure I’m completely safe from any sort of accidental arm brushing or nudging. So he slept on his back, head nestled in the pillow, snoring so loudly we had to crank up the sound to hear the musical. Right…this was the normal, mundane part of my day, remember?

I realized sometime after lunch that I hadn’t heard a peep (or a crow) out of our resident fugitive, the cocky rooster, Clooney, and I was worried my husband had secretly taken him out back and done away with him. He didn’t, but this is something I prepare myself for each day, even though I secretly think he’s starting to like him now that he’s getting so much attention on the web. So, yeah, keep up the pleas for Clooney, it might actually be sinking in.

So, once I discovered the chickens were in hiding and not the freezer, I set off on the rest of my exceedingly boring day. I read. I swept the dog hair and teddy bear fluff from the floors. And I ordered pizza because I hate to cook. Boring.

Then the storm hit.

It was practically a typhoon. I don’t know where it came from, but suddenly I was watching out the window for a witch on a broom, or something. I know…wrong storm, but it was seriously whipping up debris out there. My husband came bounding through the backdoor as if he was shot out of a cannon…a water cannon…and we proceeded to watch things blow around the backyard by the light of the intermittent lightning flashes.

I was worried about the flock. The last thing I wanted to see was my stupid rooster…the one I’ve been trying to save for days, or even weeks…suddenly splat into the window like a bug on a windshield. I was worried the ducks would drown. I’d heard about turkeys drowning in the rain, but are ducks as stupid as turkeys? I had no idea. It was pitch black outside, and the sound of the rain hammering the house would surely drown out a duck’s plea for help, so I was frantic. Well…mildly concerned maybe.

Then I saw them.

The crazy juvenile ducks, all clearly suffering from some form of avian ADHD, were dancing around the baby pool as it was pounded by rain. I could only see them as the sky lit up from above, but it was like watching some sort of freakish cult, dancing circles around the baby pool as if they were planning to sacrifice a virgin or something.

Once I could tear my eyes away from the spectacle outside, I heard one of the girls yelling that the cat had snagged another mouse in the back hallway. I was secretly hoping they were dragging them in from the yard, as cats often do. I didn’t want to think they were doing their jobs and hunting mice inside the house, but there it was.

Proof.

I have freaking mice on top of everything else this house has to offer. The ghosts, the flies, the spiders, the horrible plumbing, the scary basement…not enough. No, I had to have mice too. Well, at least I have cats, right? And damn fine hunters too. They’ve bagged three of those suckers in the past week alone, and it’s only Wednesday. My third least favorite day of the week, by the way. And after the day I’ve had, I might have to upgrade it a few notches. At least temporarily.

Until the next time…I’ll be buying special treats for my kitties!

coc au vin

My husband wants to cook my rooster in a pot. And not just because of his culinary possibilities, either. No, the love of my life wants to commit cockicide.

Yeah, I know it’s not a word, but it doesn’t change his intentions. My rooster is crowing on borrowed time.

Mike has discovered the Henrietta’s and Clooney (rooster extraordinaire) in the neighbor’s front yard every morning this week. In fact, they’re knocking on the front door, panhandling for bread. This is not only embarrassing when the neighbor comes to the door empty handed, shaking a fist in the direction of my house, but also potentially dangerous for my three best egg layers. Mike is convinced Clooney is leading the hens a stray, and therefore needs to go.

My new mission is to protect my rooster from a death sentence.

I mean, I like chicken as much as the next person, I do. I can think of dozens of tasty dishes starring chicken that would get my saliva pumping. I even get a huge kick out of the Chick Fil A cows, pimping chicken on giant billboards all over town. But I don’t know if I could eat someone I know. You know? In fact, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t. Even if he is a massive dick at three am, crowing loud enough to scare the crap out of even the deepest sleeper. There’s just something about the little shit that I like, and I don’t mean his delicious taste.

But I’m going to have my work cut out for me if I want to protect the strutting, crowing, hen mounting jerk…especially after this morning. Mike woke me up just after dawn, screaming through the house about how the rooster was dead…as in, dead cock walking. Nothing in recent months has caused me to shoot of my sheets faster than the thought of my husband stalking the yard, bloody axe in hand, like a Green Acres version of Jack Nicholson in the Shining. “Come here you little fuck, I’m not gonna hurt ya…I just wanna talk.” I may be exaggerating just a bit, but hey, that’s what I do, so I’m ok with that.

I heard Clooney crow just a little while ago, and I know my husband has long since gone to the office, so it would seem the bird will live to see another day. I can’t say what tomorrow will bring, but I can say this…if it comes down to it, no matter how much I adore the little guy, if it comes down to his neck or mine, we’ll be eating Coq Au Vin for dinner.

Just sayin’

Until the next time…I’ll be playing bodyguard for a chicken.

a ghost in the machine

I’ve said it before, and I’m sure I’ll say it again. My house is haunted. But I’d like to think it’s haunted by nice spirits, not nasty ones. Then again, after the conversation I had with the kids this evening, I’m stocking up on holy water and rosary beads (can you get those at the local pharmacy?)

Apparently, we’ve had quite a few ghost sightings around here lately. The neighbor kids (the Goonies) mentioned seeing a little girl in the window of one of the upstairs bedrooms long before anyone moved in the vacant farm house. My husband and I have heard noises coming from the basement late at night. And the dogs have heard footsteps on the upper floor when no one else was home to be upstairs. I had finally accepted these as normal. No need for an exorcist, right? But then my daughter’s boyfriend saw four figures standing on the front lawn in the middle of the night, staring up at the house. This after a nightmare in which the earth came to an end. So ok, that might have freaked me out just a little.

But, hey…I’m still here. (Stocking up on holy water and rosary beads, remember?)

The good news is, I’m not such a Debbie Downer today after the wonderful words of support from everyone yesterday. Thanks all! Sometimes you just need a reminder of what’s important, I guess. That and a good scare to knock some sense into you.

Not to mention a handsome (and quite flirty) young rooster. I think he’s decided my coop is his coop. I can’t open the doors without him flying right inside to perch on the nearest piece of furniture, followed by the entire flock. Silly bird. I’m starting to feel like the crazy pigeon lady of Central Park. All I need is a big floppy hat with a pink carnation. Yeah, don’t get any ideas.

Until the next time…I need to get the flock out of here. I need some sleep.

the mind of a chicken

Ah…the sun is up and I’m ready to set forth and forage the yard, but alas, my pen is still closed. I must wait for my release.

I stand perched at the window, rustling my shiny black feathers trying to draw attention to myself…it doesn’t work.

My head tips to the side all of it’s own accord as I hear the door to the house creak open. I look, and squawk as I see him. “It’s the man!” I cry out to the others. “The man who feeds us sometimes!” I wonder if he’ll feed us this morning. I don’t remember when we were fed last…seems like ages.

“Here he comes,” I squawk. “Look natural,” I tell the others.

The man lifts our pen, then releases the juveniles and we race across the yard to the feeder.

Nothing. He’s left us nothing this morning. We’ll have to wait for the bread lady to awaken.

Hours go by. So many hours we can’t even count them. The sun is high and the water is getting low, so we flock to the back door and draw attention to the giant dog. He’ll plead our case to the bread lady, and she’ll bring us fresh water and treats. She’s a push over. Not like the man who feeds us sometimes. He sticks to his miserable schedule.

We don’t think he loves us.

Ah, pecking at the glass and taunting the giant dog has worked. His barks have woken the house and the bread lady has stumbled from her coop and is heading our way. Her hair stands on end and she looks like one of us. We like her.

The foolish juveniles flock to her in a rush as she steps outside. I peck at them to warn them. “If you trip her, we get nothing!” But they don’t listen. Especially the young rooster. He seems hell bent on our mutual destruction. I chase him until he runs and the dog gives chase. Foolish child!

The rest of us race to the fresh water and drink before the children can take it all.

The bread lady vanishes for what seems like days before coming back to toss sweet treats to the yard.

We love her…even if she does steal our eggs every day.

More time passes. We are forced to hunt for food…pecking the earth for bugs and grasses. I send the juveniles to take turns pecking at the glass. Surely someone will throw treats if we do. The little rooster pushes his way into the house and causes a well-timed ruckus…this gives us a chance to slip in and eat the crumbs under the table. Stupid rooster has no clue he’s been played again…and he’s off running as the dog chases him out of the house.

Finally the people come outside. I hear the bread lady tell the man who feeds us sometimes that they’re going to the bread store.

The bread store?

I call to the rest of the flock and we give chase, running circles around their feet on our path to the car. If anyone is going to the bread store, we’re going too!

We’re not going. They shoo us off and drive away without us. And we wait by the door until they return.

With new bread!

Once we’ve had our bread, and our evening meal, we spend the day eating more bugs and grasses, evading the giant dog as he trails us around yard and hiding from the giant hawk that circles above us. Life is dangerous on the farm.

Finally, as night begins to fall, we wander into our coops to perch for the night. We can’t complain. We have it pretty good…even if we do have to live on bugs.

Until the next time…I’ll be waking with the chickens!