Last week we were busy (as always, right?) with school, work, farming, and battening down the hatches before we got broadsided by Hurricane Earl. We covered up all the bedding and feed stacked in the lean-to; put away all the ceramic bird feeders, and tied the tricycles to the porch with bailing twine.
We had to leave the bikes out. In case we needed to evacuate.
Then the Cowboy started shouting for me.
He’s got a bit of speech trouble. I usually understand about 4 of every 5 words. When he gets excited, maybe 3 out of 5. This time all I got was “Mama! Mama! Bwah, bwah, bwah, bwah…” (He has trouble with “L”).
So I ran out there and saw this little guy…
Ok, we have a chicken on the loose. This is a problem. Now, I’m not convinced that our chicken tractor will survive a hurricane. (We actually call it the “field pen,” but “chicken tractor” was a book so it’s sort of the current buzz word.) But I’m pretty sure that the chickens’ best bet would be to be in the chicken tractor.
Then the chickens noticed us. “Us” being the bringers-of-food. And I realized the full extent of my situation…
…And they kept coming.
Eleven in all. And the kids and I didn’t manage to catch a single one. Although there was a lot of sweating and running and squealing involved.
Mr. Fix-It came home and scooped them all up at feeding time. Just for the record, chickens are ferocious eaters. Truly. They’ll push, shove, peck, smother, suffocate, claw, beat, and trample each other over the food dish. It’s very, very important to keep their feeding schedule normal and plenty of room at the feed trough. Or it can get very ugly. So as soon as he walked out there with the bucket they were done with chasing bugs and practically flying back in on their own. He hardly had to do anything.
Or so I like to think.