I love my chickens. I had no idea it would be possible for me to become this fond of livestock, but they are truly, singularly delightful birds. I mean, they eat my garbage and turn it into eggs, which is pretty nifty. They live in an old bathroom vanity (maybe the focus of this should be "I love my neighbors" for tolerating such hillbillies next door to them)(but we all have a good working system of politely putting up with each others' neighborly shortcomings, and assuming that we all chose to live in an HOA-free neighborhood consciously and for good reason)(and, okay, the exception to that is when my husband tried to kill the Jack Russell next door, but that's a story for another post)(and it kind of made me reconsider what I thought I knew about my husband as a person)(if you haven't had moments like that yet, you just haven't been with your significant other long enough - but have no fear, they will come. It's what makes partnered life interesting).
Back to my poultry. They have goofy bird personalities, goofy bird food preferences (Little Chicken and Floyd love old rubbery mac-and-cheese, Red likes cantaloupe guts), and they lay lovely green and pink eggs, not to mention keeping my nieces, nephew, and mother-in-law's yappy lapdog endlessly entertained while visiting. It's good stuff. I'd recommend fowl to anyone, whether or not your mother-in-law has a yappy lapdog in need of diversion (though to this day, if you make clucking noises at Ruby (which I'm qualified to do, having witnessed many years of the Wayne Chicken Show Cluck-off) she will go completely berserk, which then, in turn, entertains my kids. Win-win.)
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