Let the Carnage Begin

My chicks arrived Thursday morning.

They're cute as, well,
little fuzzy baby chicks.

They are tiny and they sit in the palm of your hand and they go peep-peep-peep.

But I know their days of being adorable are numbered.
I just stopped into my local feed store to get a new heat lamp and saw they had some chicks for sale.

2 1/2 week old chicks.

Not so cute.

Bigger.
No longer going peep-peep-peep.
Walking all over their smelly green poo.
Feathers beginning to come in every which way.
Not in that cute-soft-fuzzy sort of way, but more like the chin-stubble-of-a-teenage-boy kind of way.

Oh well. The kids and I will enjoy a bit of precious while it lasts.

The thing that I dread more than the loss of their cuteness is the approach of their certain demise.

See, I have a not-so-strong history with chickens.

The first time I got them I did not fully appreciate the importance of a fortress-like chicken coop. I had a stall in the barn all decked out for them, but my barn was by no means critter-proof.
Needless to say, I came out one morning to find a bunch of feathers, a piece of wing here or there, and not much else. They were good eats for the foxes.

And it was a lot of chickens, so one of those clever foxes must've gotten the idea to do a delivery service that night. Or somethin.
I'm just saying, it was a lot of chickens.

But that was years ago.
I'm older and wiser now.

I've got a varmint-proof room in my barn all ready for my little chickadees.
But even that didn't satisfy me. I was afraid their heat-lamp might mysteriously malfunction in the middle of the night and they would freeze to death all huddled in a ball of cuteness.

Chicksicles.

So I'm keeping them inside for a while.

In Rosie's bathtub.

How does a 13 year old girl feel about having to share her bathroom with a dozen or so chicks?
Oh she's good for now because of the teenage-girl-affinity-for-all-things-adorable thing.
But I know in two weeks' time, when their stench overpowers the rankor of her bathroom, she will be peeping a different tune.

When they're ugly.
And smelly.
And loud.
And messy.
And have I mentioned smelly?














Our farmdog Annabelle surveying her new charges.
Chicken tenders?

















The chickies are 'ere!





















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