A more accurate title would be “Cut that out, Pearly Mae!” My hens are homeless, or old, or maybe just cranky. Those are the kind of hens that end up in sanctuary here. Read the rest of this entry
Hens come and go around here. This year they just keep on coming. Read the rest of this entry
Tuesdays are crazy days around here because it’s guinea pig cage cleaning day. You might think an indoor, late evening chore would not affect my outdoor flock, but the Farm Manager starts the crazy part early in the afternoon. Today she was distracted by a ripe rat carcass while she was herding the hens into the aviary. Okay, herding poultry is supposed to be my job, but ew, rat carcass? I declared it to be her turn to herd and high-tailed it into the aviary, leaving Cubicle to eat my dust. The hens scattered, but after the R.C. was walked out to the dustbin at the curb, the Farm Manager dealt with the hens and went indoors.
Because of the guinea pig cage cleaning, The Bartender put the sheep to bed. Because he is a single-minded creature, he failed to notice Pearly Mae scritching around in the graveyard, pacing at the aviary gate, or maybe roosting on the deck railing near the kitchen door. Big white hen, nearly glowing in the dark, perched less than two meters from the kitchen door.
Because of the guinea pig cage cleaning, The Farm Manager stepped outside at midnight to set out the guinea pig cage soiled bedding. And noticed Pearly Mae, roosting on the deck railing, glowing quietly, less than two meters from the kitchen door. The Farm Manager snatched her up, walked her out to the aviary gate, and tossed her in. The exact opposite of what she does to Pearly Mae every morning when she gets “Time Out” for eating the cat food. So maybe it was the Farm Manager’s fault, but it was her fix, too. And everybody out in the aviary groaned as Pearly Mae returned from her night out, because she’s one of those types we all put up with, if you know what I mean.
When I designed parking lots in Alaska, I was required to include a proportionate reserve area for snow storage. Think about plowing that lot every day in the winter and having to find an out-of-the-way area to shove all that snow into. It’s not going to melt until spring, you know? Read the rest of this entry
The Farm Manager staggered out to feed us this morning, looking down at her shoes, muttering something about a naughty rabbit and new shoelaces.
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