The eggs you buy at Safeway will never look like these! These are kind of a horror story, egg style. I looked at every photo and thought to myself, yep, I’ve seen that before! I give away eggs all the time, but these get tossed. By tossed I mean that I microwave them up and feed them back to the hens.
This is an old article I blatantly stole from Backyard Chickens. I guess it’s not stealing if I send you there via a link. If you have a backyard flock, you’re going to want to sign up for their email newsletters.
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.
Owning a home means I can have pet ducks. Any neighborhood that doesn’t allow chickens isn’t going to want me, either. I bought a couple used ducks right after I moved into my first little house in Seattle. Hens came soon after. Thirty-five years later I still have a yard full of poultry, but they’re rescues, now. Read the rest of this entry →