I don’t think I mentioned that a few weeks ago, Fred processed almost all of the chickens in the blue coop yard (the small coop that was the maternity coop for a long time). I’ve been trying to convince him for about the last year that we should move all the chickens out to the big coop in the back forty so that we only had one yard to worry about – and so that all the chickens would be under George and Gracie’s protection. As it was, the chickens in the blue yard had no protection from the occasional hawk who came along, because the ditch separates the back forty from the blue yard. We had talked about joining the fence around the blue yard with the front of the back forty fence, but we were pretty sure that George and Gracie would spend all their time in the blue yard part while hawks picked off the chickens in the back forty, one by one.
So one night at dark, we went out and loaded all the chickens in the blue coop into a carrier, carried them to the big coop, and one by one placed them on the roosts in the big coop. The next morning I happened to have a bunch of errands to run, and when I got home, every damn one of the chickens we’d moved had found a way out of the back forty and they were all scattered along the fence to the blue yard, trying to figure out how to get in. They were understandably nervous when I approached them, and so I pulled the gate to the blue yard wide open and started tossing scratch on the ground and calling them. They were super interested in the scratch and they’d walk along the fence trying to figure out how to get into the yard, but then they’d reach the gate, which was in their way inasmuch as they couldn’t keep walking in a straight line, so they’d lose their shit, gather up their figurative skirts, clutch their figurative pearls, and run for the open space behind the back yard.
Eventually the mail lady came along, startling me when she called out “Should I leave this on the porch?” When she saw what was happening, came over to give me a hand, THANK GOD, since I was about to lose my shit, slam the gate closed, and yell at the chickens that they could just SUCK IT. With her help, all the chickens were shooed into the blue yard, then we talked for a few minutes (she told me about how she had been unable to deliver someone’s mail when she worked for a post office out near where Egg the Pig Man lives, because as she’d left her car she’d been rushed by a turkey. When she told the people who lived in that house what had happened, they didn’t know what she was talking about, ’cause they didn’t have any turkeys. Then I had to pontificate on the amazing stupidity of turkeys.).
That night, at dark, we loaded them all up in the carrier again, and took them out to the big coop. One by one we put them in the coop, on roosts, and then shut the door so they’d spend the night in the coop.
“Whoever escapes the back forty tomorrow and ends up back in the blue yard is going to be processed,” Fred told me grimly. I thought that was a fine idea.
And not knowing that they were signing their own death orders by their stupid devotion to the blue coop, every one of those chickens ended up back in the blue yard the next day.
That weekend, Fred processed them all and also processed several of the roosters from the big yard.
So these days, instead of going out to close up the blue coop at 7:30 (which usually required chasing one last chicken into the coop) and then going out to give the pigs their evening cookies and say goodnight to the dogs, we go out around 5:30 to the back forty, then check out the garden to see what’s going on out there, and we can settle down in front of the TV (with the ceiling fan going full-blast, usually) and relax for a few hours before bed.
It’s pretty nice.
Along the same topic, a few months after we got George and Gracie, I told Fred that it was silly to close up the big coop at night. I thought it would be fine to leave the coop open, since George and Gracie were there to protect the chickens. He disagreed, vehemently. He thought we still needed to close up the coop “just in case”. I suggested he post on one of the forums he frequents soliciting opinions. He did, and people were split between the opinion that I was a lazy-ass whore (I might be paraphrasing. Or completely making it up. WHATEVS.) for not wanting to go out and force the chickens out from under the coop and into the coop every night, and MY PEOPLE, who were all “Why the hell do you have livestock guardian dogs if you’re not going to let them do their job?”
We kept closing up the coop until at some point over the winter, we would occasionally leave the coop open if the weather was going to be bad, so that George and Gracie could go inside and stay warm. And then we left the coop open more and more often until at some point it was more unusual that we’d close the coop.
And once again, I’m in the right. George and Gracie are doing their job, the chickens are safe, and we don’t have to force chickens out from under the coop and into the coop every damn night.
And it’s pretty frickin’ nice. If I hadn’t mentioned.
It’s too bad Jake and Elwood can hardly get any of the kittens to hang out with them at ALL, isn’t it?
Reacher and Elwood.
Lieu likes to pick fights with Elwood.
Elwood and Lieu.
Rhyme’s all “I LOVE YOU, Crazy Jake!”
Rhyme’s all “I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m IN LOOOOOOVE!”
Sheila’s all “Get out of the way, it’s my turn to snuggle with him!”
From atop the dryer, Bolitar disapproves of all the shenanigans.
I cannot get over how long and leggy the Bookworms have gotten.
And now, a couple of movies. The first one is from about six weeks ago (it’s not that I don’t want to share movies with y’all – it’s that I use my Flip video to take movies, and then forget to do anything after that!), and it’s Reacher and Rhyme, hanging out in the recycling bin.
This one is from last week, I think. It starts with Sheila playing and Bolitar deciding she needs a smackdown and then goes from there. Bolitar is not a Sheila fan.
Sugarbutt disapproves.
Previously
2009: Our dogs are awfully sweet and it amazes me that anyone could be scared of them, but I have to admit that when they bark with their serious bark, they can sound kinda scary.
2008: No entry.
2007: Gives new meaning to the term of endearment “shithead”, doesn’t it?
2006: No entry.
2005: I said “You shut up, motherfucker, or I’ll unleash my wifely instincts on you” and he said “Shut your unmaternal mouth, woman.”
2004: Wound report: It’s sensitive and weepy. Just like me!
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: Have you ever felt like your hair looks like a really bad wig?