Stupid cold front.
I had fervently hoped I could put my chicks in their Chick Shack in the barn by now.
But it's too cold. Even with their heat lamp I know I would probably toss and turn all night wondering if they were warm enough.
And I really don't need one more thing to worry about.
So till this weekend (hope, hope), they are to remain in Rosie's bathtub.
Oh the smell!
Oh the dust!
I shall faint.
Though I've been keeping up pretty well with adding fresh bedding each day, and the ventilation fan is working overtime sucking the fumes out through the ceiling, the birds are getting bigger.
It goes without saying that their sh** is getting bigger.
And no matter how high a platform I put it on, their waterer keeps getting clogged up with the pine chips they're forever scratching and clawing. So two to three times a day I have to scoop out the soggy, poop-laden chips and dispose of them, and dump the nasty water down the toilet.
Bella sat on the lid of that toilet last night during visiting hours with the chicks. When she got up? The seat of her pants was covered in chicken dust.
There's a new phrase for your vocabulary. Chicken dust.
I had to pour Liquid Plumr down the sink b/c it was all clogged up with dust and wood chips and, I daresay, chicken excrement from when I rinse out the waterer.
Tangential rambling: who was the brilliant marketing guru that decided removing the 'b' and the 'e' from the word Plumber would sell more product? Was it thought to be cute? Sorry, but when I'm trying to bust up a drain clog the size of a Jack Russell Terrier consisting of hair, hair products, feathers, chicken dust, excrement and wood chips, I'm not looking for cute. I want the 'b'. I needs me the 'e'. I want a bald-headed-crack-showin'-stained-shirt-wearin' PLUMBER. I have no need for a "plumr". There. Thank you for allowing me that moment.
Right about now would be a really good time to remind me why it was I wanted chickens.
So far I've had to pay for
grit (yes, I have actually paid Real Money for little crushed up rocks)
I know, I know, they're too young. They won't start giving me eggs till this summer. Maybe fall.
But I'll tell you what. Those little dinosaurs better be friggin' egg-laying machines to make up for all this trouble.
Old reeking poop-laden bedding.
Fresh new bedding.
Henny Penny. I don't care what the good people at Ideal Poultry say, they slipped me a hawk. Any chickenotholigists out there? Can anyone identify what breed this one is? She kinda scares me.
Miss Peggy. This one's gotta be a buzzard. She gives me the heeby jeebies.
Ting. Can you say gangly?
Chicken Little. Everybodysay awwwwww......
Roughneck Grace Column Update
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