Last spring started the beginning of my “we-will-survive-the-zombie-apocolypse” plan. We went to the feed store and brought home 6 chickens. Originally we only wanted 4, but then we were afraid that some of them would be roosters, so we bought 2 more.
Then mid winter, I decided it would be a great idea to let the ladies out to free range. Bobby the Bobcat thought it was a great idea too. Poor Henrietta. We saw him drag her into the forest.
Marshall: Wow! That was very nature documentaryish
Me: I was thinking of the theme song from “Lion King”
Mike: Hakuna Matatata, means no worries. Wait? Why are you thinking of that song?
Me: No, I was thinking the Elton John song, “The Ciiiircle of Liiiiife” but Hakuna Matata works well too.
McKayla: Aren’t you going to go rescue her?!?
Me: No way. I’m not taking a chicken away from a hungry bobcat and I am definitely not taking a chicken to the vet.
Once Bobby got a taste for our ladies, he was unstoppable. The next day Mike came running in screaming that the bobcat was inside the chicken coop. Awesome, just awesome. There went Pooper McPooperson.
We had a bit of a reprieve because Dave chased the bobcat around the yard with a look of menace in his eyes. Whatever he did worked, and the bobcat was scared into hiding. Yet when Dave went to China, Bobby came back for some more. My cousin was spending the week.
Him: Um, cousin, are your chickens supposed to be out?
Me: No.
Him: Oh man! Bobby is back! Marshall bring me your baseball bat! We’re going to protect these chickens!
Somehow Bob had scared the ladies out of the coop and was picking them off one by one. There went Ducky and Big Momma. Poor, Poor big Momma.
Now we’re just down to two. And though we’re not supposed to have favorites, I am a little upset that Mrs. Noisy was the one that made it. I’m pretty sure she thinks she’s part rooster.
We’ve bobcat proofed the coop and bought 18 baby peeps. I don’t know what it is about peeps that makes them so darn adorable. It makes me sort of forget how disgusting adult chickens are.
I’ve already started naming them. Collette, Francesca, Henrietta the second, Katherine, Elizabeth, Genevieve, Victoria…
Nate: Those are girly names.
Me: These are girls. And they’re the only baby girls I’m going to get to have. If my ovaries can’t overact, I’m going to have 18 babies chickies.
Jake: How are we going to know who is who, they all look the same?
Me: Maybe we could tag them. We could write their names on the tags.
Dave: You’ll be hard pressed to write Genevieve on a small tag.
Me: Maybe I could crochet them little bonnets. How tolerant do you think they’ll be of Harry Potter sweaters with their initials on them?
Turns out I wasn’t the first one to think of it.
Overactiveovaries 