It’s a terrifying feeling hearing a thump that sounds like your baby falling off the bed. Adrenaline pumping, I run into the bedroom where I left her sleeping. Turns out it was either a squirrel or a chicken.
A chicken on the roof? Highly unlikely. But I think I heard a chicken. Who knows. Pass the coffee, please.
Speaking of coffee, last night after an unusually succulent (I’m not sure what I think of that word) roast beef and veggies dinner, I hesitantly offered to share a few sips of my coffee drink. I’ve been dealing with a week old migraine and back pain, so my husband said, “I don’t want to take a drop of that golden liquid from you. You need it.” What a wise man! I was truly touched.
Speaking of chickens, (I mentioned them in the beginning before I got sidetracked with coffee, in case you forgot.) I have loathsome feelings towards our little flock of six these days. Gathering nutritious eggs from my backyard usually works to override any negative feelings towards their obnoxious behavior, but that persuasion is weak because DID YOU KNOW THAT CHICKENS CAN EAT THEIR OWN EGGS? (Excuse the poor sentence structure, but I just needed to get that out. )
It’s not for lack of feed that they are canables. I was under the impression that chickens can’t be trained out of the habit, but my sister said it can be a sign of calcium deficiency. (Oyster shells did the trick in getting them to stop, in her case.)
Silly bastards sometimes charge or peck me when I try to get the eggs. They seem to think their eggs are fertilized at times. Dillusional!
I like my chickens exercised and roaming for bugs occasionally during the day, but the poop on my sandal says otherwise. Not acceptable.
I don’t like chasing chicken out of the neighbor’s yard or having to scold an escaped chicken so loudly it makes my baby whimper.
Anyways, my husband and I loathe our reds so much, they crop up as negative reference points in our descriptive conversation. We were both feeling poorly over the weekend, and this was the result:
Him: “I feel like sh** twice flushed.”
Me: “I feel like chicken sh** smashed on a sandal.”
Speaking from experience. See what I did there!
And lastly, speaking of chicken wastes, I never thought anything to do with poo could be the way to a man’s heart. Turns out it can be a huge turn on.
Last week I surprised my hardworking man by cleaning out the poop tray of the chicken coop, spreading it on the garden, and cleaning and putting fresh shavings in the nests when I gathered the eggs. When he came home to find that after a long day, he was hot for me! 🙂
We are selling our chickens and that beautiful, handmade coop, so I guess I have to take advantage.
It can be easy to get caught up in the monotony of responsibilities, and it’s good to break things up with the unexpected to make the other feel appreciated. You never know if chicken poo removal can spark some romance!