The chickens are awesome.
I’m getting 2-3 eggs a day right now.
My pets make me food….. and when they cease to make me food, they will become food. They are the most perfect pets ever. Also, they eat slugs, so I no longer have to worry about stepping on any of those creepy unbelievably gigantic slugs that the Pacific Northwest seems to breed. The chickens are pretty tame now. They’ve gone from being completely unhandled to following me around the yard, begging for food.
On a side note – did you know that I’m an extremely popular person? No matter how hard I try I can’t manage to sneak outside without two little boys, two cats, and now three chickens revolving around me like some kind of really loud, awkward solar system. On Friday I’m going to add a puppy to the mix. I miss my solitude some days, but at least my self esteem is doing well.
So, back to the chickens…. Yeah. The chickens are getting tame. They seem to like it here, and they like me.
They really like me.
And by like me, I mean they REALLY like me.
They trail me around whenever I’m in the yard, clucking and complaining, and if I turn around to pay attention to them, they, uh…
Well, I’ll just be blunt: They assume the position.
Yes, that’s right. Every time I turn around to pay attention to one of my new chickens, she crouches, flares her wings, and looks over her shoulder at me, waggling her little chicken eyebrows suggestively. I know chickens can’t speak, but I can hear it clear as day:
Hop on, Sailor.
Do you have any idea how incredibly awkward it is to try to carry on a conversation with your neighbor while three chickens flutter around you, desperately begging for sex?
I mean, don’t get me wrong— I’m flattered. It’s always nice to be admired, and I do love my chickens.
I just don’t LOVE my chickens, you know?