The Chicken Project

Happy Father’s Day.

Most days I have two hours that are mine. I try to divide those two free hours evenly between writing and getting some exercise, because New Hampshire has a Dunkin’ Donuts every quarter mile and I’m too short to be this round. The rest of the time, I’m at work or taking care of our property or preventing three teenagers from murdering each other. The Spousal Unit works part-time, has chronic health issues and requires a lot of rest, so I stay busy.

This week, one of my co-workers had an honest-to-gods nervous breakdown and had to go on a leave of absence, so I’ve been working too many extra hours to get any writing done. I’m determined to get some writing time in today because when I don’t write my mind gets a bloated feeling like it’s stuffed full of stars and it’s difficult to think about other things. In the bad old days, they used to drill holes in the skulls of the different and the odd to release the demons that were driving them mad. Turns out, all they needed was a Chromebook and Google Docs.

Look, a chicken!

I’ll admit to a lack of general interest in planning ahead. The Spousal Unit will confirm this, probably with an exasperated hand to the forehead. So, with my usual faith in figuring specifics out later I ordered a half-dozen day old chicks with pretty much nothing ready for them. The hen-house and attached run that came with the farm we bought last summer is not in great shape.

I thoroughly inspected the hen-house AFTER six adorable peeping golf balls were toddling around in a heated brooder in my den. When I did I realized it was just a big predator buffet. We’d named them by then, it was too late for the old ‘well, you might lose some’ laissez-faire attitude. They’re our friends now and we have to protect them.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer is the largest, and the sweetest in temperament. Wickel is the trouble-maker. Felicity is the adventurous one, she tries everything first and the others follow. Vogue is the lazy one and likes to flop down in the sun. JJ, short for Joan Jett, is our little weird one. We don’t know what’s up exactly, but she’s a space cadet and has a funny, backwards run. If she gets four feet from the others she cries like she’s hopelessly lost. The Spouse says she’ll probably lay square eggs.

Hermione, thus far, has no distinct personality. She’ll probably turn out to have several superpowers, like Jack-Jack in the Incredibles.

So I ordered an EGLU, which is like a Fisher-Price henhouse. Easy to clean, easy to fetch the eggs, insulated for temperature regulation, predator-proof, they thought of everything. Trouble is, since loads of people thought the zombie apocalypse was nigh and bought chickens this spring, the Eglus are back-ordered so we won’t get ours for another month.

I’m sitting here now with six growing chickens in my den, now 8 weeks old, in a temporary indoor chicken run of my own making. I put down a tarp, then cardboard to absorb moisture, then set up a large puppy playpen around that, put hay down and made a cover out of cardboard, window screens and broom handles. It keeps them in, but I can tell they’re annoyed and ready for their own apartment.

At least once a day I take them outside and let them run around under my watchful eye, or sometimes in the care of Son #2. He’s very good about looking after them. We call him the Chicken Nanny. One day I found him with his arms outstretched, all six chickens roosting in a row across his arms and shoulders, like the God of Domestic Fowl.

We’re surrounded by trees and bushes and tall grass, so in case of predator attack I have either a baseball bat or my katana. Standing out in my yard, in my dirty work clothes, with six chickens and a sword in my hand. The neighbors already think we’re all batshit crazy, so no worries there. We’re like the local Addams Family. Some people love us, others don’t make eye contact.

Finishing my coffee, and then it’s time for translating this brain full of nonsense into words. I also might plant some cucumbers. ‘Cause I’m a Real Wild Child. 😎