A nice, cool and breezy morning. It would have been nice to sleep in, but instead I got right up and paid a visit to the early morning damp garlic. We're getting close to cutting our ramps, so it's important to keep the garlic as weed-free as possible to allow the last burst of bulb growth to have the most umph.
I did not even take the time to make myself coffee, also I did not take the time to feed the cat. This was apparently a problem.
Scatt usually comes to the gardens with me. He's my little garden buddy. In the early years when he used to care he would even scare away the snakes for me. Today, though, I feel like he came to the garden just to yell at me for not feeding him before starting my morning. Sensing that I wasn't going to drop what I was doing to trek back in just to feed him, the jackhole resigned himself to staying with me.
While weeding I noticed Scatt licking himself, or maybe eating grass - I wasn't sure, but it was repetitive and almost frantic. Then I realized I smelled a sicky-sweet smell. "What weed was that?" was my first thought. It was a familiar, not unpleasant, but somewhat unsettling smell. While those brief thoughts were bouncing around in my noggin it occurred to me that Scatt was absorbed in his fetish of licking ANTS! The little shit was licking ants! I had observed him doing this only once before and was easily able to redirect him. This time, though, it was all about the ants! I had to physically remove him from the spot. He proceeded to flop down next to me on my garden towel, purring as loudly as Scott's rototiller. He continued to flop back and forth, whoring himself for any attention I would give him. He tried again to go back to the ants and again had to be removed.
My conclusion- my sweet little kitty boy was flying high on an ecstasy type trip!
I finally got the jackhole settled down and continue my task of weeding the garlic. Just short of frantically, Scott calls me to the chicken coop - HURRY! FAST! My mind is racing and I'm trying to keep my short little legs from tripping over the fencing, clumps of weeds, dogs, other chickens, and goodness knows what else between the garden and the chicken coop - at the complete other side of the property. Before I could get my stumpyness to the other side of the homestead I implored hubby to use his words, "what's going on?!" "Baby!" is the only response I get. Being the ever-emotional husbandry pragmatist I am, I ask, "dead or alive?" Thankfully and miraculously his response was alive!
I say miraculously because the wee little chickie was out of the cozy little crate nest I had made for Mama. The little poop-head could easily have gotten too chilled and died, got eaten by any of the other chickens in the coop, or, as hubby opened the coop door, trampled to death by the dozens of eager chicken feet waiting to get out.
We ogled and ahhed over the little cutie and got it nestled back in under Mama's warm and safe fluff. I did pick away the tiniest bit of shell on it's emerging sibling. And, in fact by the time I secured the holes in the door of the crate, worked a little more in the garden, and took a bit of a break to write a little, the next wee little chickie had hatched.
Today was a good day.
Masterpieces from our friend Jim Seymour. We all seem to have a little extra time on our hands right now, but Jim is spending his time better than most!
From top then clockwise:
Fluffy - the half blind almost 8 year old rooster rooler of the front yard special needs chickens
Lucky - our incredibly spoiled, toe missing, first house chicken, addicted to cheese doodles and gin
Bunny - another front yard special needs chicken that is no longer special needs, the most indignant and entitled hen you could ever meet, one hell of a garden buddy with no tolerance for the dogs' shenanigans
and of course our magnificent goatie girl, Morgan Marie
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| Hector, the Good Boy |
Our chicker peckers free range on most nice days. They're usually very good at staying close to home. There is, however, a small inner-flock gang of delinquent hens that does like to wander down to the road. The road has the allure of winter's snowplow debris build up that makes for a delightful dust bath. Our road has been a little busier than usual with bored people out for a Sunday drive, of course on a Tuesday afternoon. I get it, they want to get out of the house and ride around. We do the same thing. The difference is that we go slowly and are respectful. Unfortunately, the fools tooling around on our our dead end road fly by kicking up the dirt and dust, and probably wouldn't have time to stop for lounging chickens. So, because of this, I try my best to keep our girls out of the road. When I notice them lollygagging around chitting about goodness only knows what, I let loose my signature call of 'snacker-doodle-do!' They come running. They usually come running. Almost all of them usually come running. But, one hen in particular has been deaf to my pleas this Spring, the allure of a good dust bath obviously more important than following the flock. I call and the good girls come running followed by their dutiful roosters... except for Blondie Mama. Blondie Mama, I could see, was busily preening all by herself in the road near the end of the driveway. I called again, just for her. Nothing. I looked at our newest flock member, a beautiful large white yearling rooster, Hector, and asked him to go get her. I'm thinking to myself, yup... I've lost it, asking my boy to go retrieve his girl. What happened even surprised me! Instead of coming to the porch stairs to have a snack with the rest of the fluff-butts, Hector makes his way to the end of the driveway and scoots the stubborn hen all the way back up! "What a good boy, Hector! I cannot believe you just did that!" I exclaim as I try to give a reward snack just to him. He kept his distance, keeping a watchful eye on the girls as they scratched and pecked for the last of the seed treat I tossed for them. What a good boy, Hector, you belong with this flock.
Scatt usually comes to the gardens with me. He's my little garden buddy. In the early years when he used to care he would even scare away the snakes for me. Today, though, I feel like he came to the garden just to yell at me for not feeding him before starting my morning. Sensing that I wasn't going to drop what I was doing to trek back in just to feed him, the jackhole resigned himself to staying with me.
Today was a good day. 
