I let my baby chickens out of the house to roam around the house. They love eating bugs out of Tweets flower bed. Then I went inside for a little nap. Something woke me from a dead sleep, a sense of dread, a distant call, a fathers instinct. WTF!! I threw on some sweats foregoing the shoes ignoring the goatheads that pierced my feet. No chickens anywhere. I walked around to the south side of the house. Huddled in the Iris's was Ary, Goldy, and Gizmo, completely comatose with fear, no sign of runt. I picked up the three and carried them to the Coop. Then went on a frantic search for Runt. She was nowhere to be found. I looked for signs of a struggle, only a single fuzzy down feather cought in a branch of the lantern tree. I called Tweet at work, "Runt is gone! I dont know what happened." We have a fence around our yard but my frantic mind was racing, there was a bit of space under the gate that a dog could squeez under. There had been a kid with a blue punk rock haircut walking by staring at me. I had nodded at him noticed he didn't nod back. Rage inside me, I started taking mental notes. All the neighbors dogs were suspect, didn't remember seeing any cats. A Hawk? That punker kid? I fantasized about catching something in the act of stealing runt, My fist the crunching of bone, my boot catching the thief in the ass. anything to assuage this anger. For days I stewed, angry, feeling like I had betrayed Runt with my ill advised nap. Finally, a week later, I let my three remaining chickens out of the coop for a bug expedition while I went inside to mix thier food with Nancies yogurt that I bought special for them. I walked outside. There, circling low, was a hawk, the culprit, Back for a snack. I found Ary, Gizmo and Goldie had learned from this past encounter and had hidden themselves in a thorny shrub by the shed.
In my minds eye I had already walked out of my house a thousand times, catching the perp in the act of grabbing Runt, grabbing him in my vengefull hands ignoring its beak,fists, or fangs as they plunged into my flesh even relishing it, as I began my act of destroying the creature that had dared to defile the sanctity of our space and taken Runt from me. I called Tweet at work. " It was a hawk." Silence..."Well at least now you know." Although I'm a person that loves the wild things of this world, and don't care for the hunting of wolves, raptors or anything endangered. I have to confess this experience has allowed me to empathize with the farmers and shepherds of the world that had felt the need to go forth to avenge the loss of thier flock.
The one thing that gave me pause in my self righteous anger is, if I had walked out of the house and it had been a Bald Eagle, what would I have done? The answer. Though I cant be one hundred percent sure...could have been to run back inside for my camera.
I'm writing a fictional novel about William "Spud" Magruder a man who is seeking the meaning of life and trying to have some fun along the way. One afternoon Spud finds himself driving his eighteen wheeler into Santa Barbara and decides to stop in for a visit to one of the favorite bars from his youth, The Wildcat Tavern. But before Spud can get to the Wildcat he has a freak accident and recieves an almost lethal dose of pheromones. After much soul searching Spud decides to stop in at the Wildcat anyway. While at the Wildcat, Spud meets a mysterious lady with a gold tooth, a bouncer as big as a tree, and is forced into a life or death encounter with a woman that drawls like a chicken. They say everyone's got a novel running round their brain so I thought I'd give it a shot. I'm putting a link here so my readers can check out a couple chapters. Oh yeah, almost forgot the password is beer. Thanks, Burnie
So says my friend Urk, paraphrasing a beatles song.
Our chickens have enhanced the quality of life for us a lot and haven't laid a single egg. Getting up in the morning to feed and water the gal's is a great way to start out the day and they are so funny to watch. As soon as they see me heading toward thier little coop they start to call out like an anxious bunch of teen agers. I open the door and they're off like a shot, chasing eachother around the coop in joyous freedom a couple times, then out to the garden that lies still fallow to scratch for bugs. When I have the food bowl in hand, Goldie spots me first, and they make a flapping sprint for me to see what treat I've brought from the kitchen. Their favorite so far, is left over sweet potatoes. I know I talk about different nutrients being good for depression, but to be honest one of the best mood enhancers I've found is just hangin' out with my chickens.
This movable coop is perfect for our small yard and keeps the Gal's safe when were out and about.
My nephew Taigan and Goldie.
Been trucking since 96. My main interest is having a good healthy life.