Crazy Chickens/Crazy Me

Many pets seem to match their owners and I usually can pick out which doggy belongs to which owner quite easily. Cats are a little different but chickens are impossible to synchronize with their human. They can be so random. Their squawking, for instance, can drive one up the wall. Even the seemingly endless crowing of a maturing cockerel in the middle of the night, for no apparent reason, can be quite annoying. Sometimes I can sleep right through it but other times my peace seems permanently disturbed. I either sleep like a corpse and hear nothing or wake up every few minutes like a ballerina on speed. 

I’m not quite sure which is worse. But in the daytime hours these same birds make a hell of a mess outside on the pathways that lead right to the front door. To prevent me from pulling out the rest of my hair, John installed a strange looking gateway for that area, but often it’s slightly ajar and a few feathered creatures slip through to rummage through any potted plants and expose as much dirt as is scientifically possible onto the ground that has usually just been swept off the same pathway by yours truly. They’re the sneaky little ones that go through the front barn door when it’s ever so slightly ajar, walking into that decrepit mess and then out the side door, which leads right back to our front door and then they’re locked into the wrong side of the makeshift gate to keep them away from the house. In other words they're right next to our front door. It's a good system (for them). Oh well. I figured that they were smarter than me years ago. Although they lay their eggs covertly in secret locations, when they announce it to the world their clucking goes on and on indefinitely until everyone on our street knows about it. So my pristine pathways and peace of mind are shattered during their daily routines of finding my immaculate garden and destroying it as soon as I turn my head. The ways of these fattening hens and their suitors are mysterious. They always seem to want to congregate wherever I’m intent on working. Hmm. They’re thinking. What is she doing now? Is she going to feed us again? Ever? What’s that she’s putting in the ground? Let’s see it up close. In fact, let’s excavate the entire area. 

Do you get the picture? They RULE me. I do try to get my way with them but somehow these stupid birds outsmart me at every turn. Hmm. 

Just looking at their photos here shows they’ve got the upper claw. But most of these were shot after a big incident during their afternoon smoko, as John calls it. They were tame by the time I took these photographs and even look quite innocent of any charges. Aw. My birds are cunning aside from being fluffed up psychos.  How I savor the peace and quiet and serenity of a country life far from the crowds. But for one sublime talent I might consider giving a few away. They finally started laying again and they’re doing it like the clappers. They’re producing loads of eggs: way too many for the two of us to eat unless we wanted to have several every few hours. I can just see it now. "Hey John, here's a couple of hard boiled eggs to go with your cup of coffee."  And if I have to put together another quiche I’ll scream.  I am so slow and when I’m done my tiny kitchen looks like a tornado hit it. And of course, I usually end up with egg on my face.

Whatever. We only have to spend at least $70 a month on feed, not to mention the countless time I spend cooking special foods or chopping up a dog food roll to entice them with more protein and giving them leftovers and bones to have a little variety in their diets. Can you tell how spoiled these chooks are yet? With that we either have a lot of fat lazy girls not laying, (which isn’t their fault since it’s the amount of light that influences the laying and there isn’t much of that in winter) and no eggs or an abundance of eggs, far more than we could ever eat. Makes sense to me. Lolly wanted chickens. Lolly got chickens. Besides, the eggs in the supermarket are pricey too and not as nutritious since those layers don’t have a huge garden to ramble in nor Chef Lolly preparing their meals. But let me assure you, free range isn’t free at all.