A year
Thanks to everyone for the positive feedback about the last entry. Our chickens thank you, too.
Some people have indicated that I may not know what I’m talking about when I said chickens are painfully stupid. To those people, I say:
Monday afternoon one of the chickens delivered a softer-than-normal poop while they were milling about me. I’d just been feeding them a couple of stale English muffins.
Normally, chicken poop is dark gray with a sort of white cap on the top. The dark part is the poop, the white part is the chicken equivalent of pee (but it’s not pee). Chickens only have one exit hole, you see.
That’s right, eggs come out that same hole.
But I digress.
Normal chicken poop is as I described, but it can have different colors and consistencies due to their diet. This particular poop was a light tan color, with no cap, and softer than a normal chicken poop is. Kind of like Haagen Dazs Dulce de Leche ice cream.
You’re welcome.
Because I was concerned that Robyn or myself might later step in that particular pile of nasty, I bent down and scooped up a little dirt to cover it.
Before I could, Frick raced over and plowed into the pile of shit beak first, scooping as much into his mouth as he could because he redefines “pig.” He’d seen my hand near the ground, and that’s all it took for him to come try to eat everything around without checking first.
He did have the sense to look confused for a second right after he swallowed it, and he didn’t eat a second bite, but still.
Dumb as rocks, I’m telling you.
As further proof, I offer: every day, without fail, at least one chicken can’t figure out how to get either in or out of the pen. Every freaking day.
Well now.
Go ahead and read that. I’ll wait.
Last August 15th, I wrote We can’t wait to find out if Green Acres really is the place to be.
It really is.
