A Flock of Boys; A Chicken Flock on the Verge of Death: A Blog in Two Acts
ACT 1:
Well, it's official. It's A BOY! I am so sure that everyone who so wished for a girl, bought little girl outfits, and daydreamed of playing Barbies with a little girl jinxed us.
Not really. Honestly, though we would've chosen a girl if given the chance, a boy is just as exciting! When you know the sex beforehand, the baby takes on more of an identity, it seems; we can assign a name, buy some clothes and nursery stuff, and greatly anticipate meeting him. Will he be anything like Stevie? Will he look like me? Or Kevin? Will he just love being the adored plaything/lab rat of two rambunctious older brothers?
Stevie was overjoyed at the prospect of being part of a trio of brothers. Now he'll be a big AND a little brother! When Kevin told him the sex, he literally jumped for joy. (Hey . . . what's he got against girls???)
And, of course, I was happy he was a boy because 1. I like boys and 2. I now have the perfect excuse to adopt a girl. Or two. And I will stand for no guff!
So . . . without further ado . . . please welcome . . . Mark T. McClary! Let's see if you brainiacs can figure out what the "T" stands for!
ACT 2:
And now for something totally unrelated . . . . Our chickens are out of control. We have 26, they have the run of the place, and there is chicken crap everywhere. If we don't hose off the porches daily, well, it's gross. So, today, I threw a fit in the driveway and loudly and petulantly demanded "Death!" Marriage is funny: Kevin has been itchin' like a backwoods no-gooder to kill a chicken and savor it's yummy organic goodness, but I have been stupidly sentimental and refused to let him rampage. However, for the past couple of months, I have been practically begging him to kill a few so I wouldn't have to endure the sight of their excrement during my tender belly time. And he hasn't! What's with this insubordination? Anyway, after this latest fit, he said, "Tell me how many you want when you get home from work today." I asked, "You mean, how many chickens do I want alive at the end of the day?" "Yes" was his reply.
Butchering several chickens is an all-day thing. (See a long-ago post for details.) And I knew he wasn't going to spend this day butchering chickens. He was fixin' to just kill some! So I told him I'd think about it.
You see, we now have FIVE hens who do nothing all day but sit on sand-filled plastic Easter eggs and get all bite-y when we go to collect the eggs that OTHER chickens laid that they have jumped on and kept warm for us (a bad thing). These are eggs that will never hatch, but these chickens are too dumb or desperate to become the stereotypical "mother hens" with their fluffy flock following them around the barnyard that they refuse to acknowledge this fact of unfertilized nature. They do nothing but give us attitude and eat feed they don't deserve. They need to die. BUT, three of them are bantams (mini chickens) meaning that they have about 2 T. of meat on them and are hardly worth butchering. These are the ones that Kevin wants to just kill and toss into the woods. BUT, they're really cute, too! The other two are Ameraucanas, which are the ones who lay the cool green and blue eggs. BUT, they're not laying eggs; they're just sitting there, brooding. A brooding chicken is a lot like a brooding human--a useless and annoying pain-in-the-ass that needs a neck-wringing.
The other useless chickens--six of them--include a bunch of feather-foot bantams--mostly roosters--that technically belong to my nephews. There are two problems with this. One, my brother hasn't built a contraption at his place to house them. Two, my nephews live in Mississippi. I'm going to call my brother today and try to convince him to lie to his children about an incident involving a tragic meeting of useless, unbutcherable, bantam roosters and a rabid pack of wolverines.
So that would get rid of about 9 chickens. Right now, I only want 6-8 total. We have some lovely big chickens who DO lay eggs. However, a few of them have made the dread discovery that they can bust open their own eggs with their killer beaks and eat the delicious goo inside. Once a flock has discovered that they can create their own food, they become predators competing with vastly superior humans for food. Since Kevin and I can't follow them around all day, snatching eggs from their downy-bottoms as soon as they are laid, we must assert our human right and kill those chickens. And you can EAT those chickens.
If you would like to save a chicken or two from the inevitable bloodbath that will commence at our once peaceful farm this weekend, let me know. Otherwise, we're culling the flock--with a few exceptions, including my beloved "Gabby"--and eatin' good.
Well, it's official. It's A BOY! I am so sure that everyone who so wished for a girl, bought little girl outfits, and daydreamed of playing Barbies with a little girl jinxed us.
Not really. Honestly, though we would've chosen a girl if given the chance, a boy is just as exciting! When you know the sex beforehand, the baby takes on more of an identity, it seems; we can assign a name, buy some clothes and nursery stuff, and greatly anticipate meeting him. Will he be anything like Stevie? Will he look like me? Or Kevin? Will he just love being the adored plaything/lab rat of two rambunctious older brothers?
Stevie was overjoyed at the prospect of being part of a trio of brothers. Now he'll be a big AND a little brother! When Kevin told him the sex, he literally jumped for joy. (Hey . . . what's he got against girls???)
And, of course, I was happy he was a boy because 1. I like boys and 2. I now have the perfect excuse to adopt a girl. Or two. And I will stand for no guff!
So . . . without further ado . . . please welcome . . . Mark T. McClary! Let's see if you brainiacs can figure out what the "T" stands for!
ACT 2:
And now for something totally unrelated . . . . Our chickens are out of control. We have 26, they have the run of the place, and there is chicken crap everywhere. If we don't hose off the porches daily, well, it's gross. So, today, I threw a fit in the driveway and loudly and petulantly demanded "Death!" Marriage is funny: Kevin has been itchin' like a backwoods no-gooder to kill a chicken and savor it's yummy organic goodness, but I have been stupidly sentimental and refused to let him rampage. However, for the past couple of months, I have been practically begging him to kill a few so I wouldn't have to endure the sight of their excrement during my tender belly time. And he hasn't! What's with this insubordination? Anyway, after this latest fit, he said, "Tell me how many you want when you get home from work today." I asked, "You mean, how many chickens do I want alive at the end of the day?" "Yes" was his reply.
Butchering several chickens is an all-day thing. (See a long-ago post for details.) And I knew he wasn't going to spend this day butchering chickens. He was fixin' to just kill some! So I told him I'd think about it.
You see, we now have FIVE hens who do nothing all day but sit on sand-filled plastic Easter eggs and get all bite-y when we go to collect the eggs that OTHER chickens laid that they have jumped on and kept warm for us (a bad thing). These are eggs that will never hatch, but these chickens are too dumb or desperate to become the stereotypical "mother hens" with their fluffy flock following them around the barnyard that they refuse to acknowledge this fact of unfertilized nature. They do nothing but give us attitude and eat feed they don't deserve. They need to die. BUT, three of them are bantams (mini chickens) meaning that they have about 2 T. of meat on them and are hardly worth butchering. These are the ones that Kevin wants to just kill and toss into the woods. BUT, they're really cute, too! The other two are Ameraucanas, which are the ones who lay the cool green and blue eggs. BUT, they're not laying eggs; they're just sitting there, brooding. A brooding chicken is a lot like a brooding human--a useless and annoying pain-in-the-ass that needs a neck-wringing.
The other useless chickens--six of them--include a bunch of feather-foot bantams--mostly roosters--that technically belong to my nephews. There are two problems with this. One, my brother hasn't built a contraption at his place to house them. Two, my nephews live in Mississippi. I'm going to call my brother today and try to convince him to lie to his children about an incident involving a tragic meeting of useless, unbutcherable, bantam roosters and a rabid pack of wolverines.
So that would get rid of about 9 chickens. Right now, I only want 6-8 total. We have some lovely big chickens who DO lay eggs. However, a few of them have made the dread discovery that they can bust open their own eggs with their killer beaks and eat the delicious goo inside. Once a flock has discovered that they can create their own food, they become predators competing with vastly superior humans for food. Since Kevin and I can't follow them around all day, snatching eggs from their downy-bottoms as soon as they are laid, we must assert our human right and kill those chickens. And you can EAT those chickens.
If you would like to save a chicken or two from the inevitable bloodbath that will commence at our once peaceful farm this weekend, let me know. Otherwise, we're culling the flock--with a few exceptions, including my beloved "Gabby"--and eatin' good.
posted by lulu | 5:53 AM
7 Comments:
The "T" either stands for Tennyson or Tiberius.
Nope. The "T" stands for "Thelonius."
Ooh.
Maybe it stands for "Tanqueray!"
I'm gonna guess that the T stands for Ted.
Tinker?
Little Mark's middle name is just "T," as in Booker T. and the MGs. As for your blood lust, Lulu, just because you're adopting and procreating doesn't mean you have the right to judge living creatures who have made the CHOICE not to lay eggs. Maybe they are concerned about the general cholestrol levels in Americans. Or maybe they are tired of being reproductive slaves. Have you ever read _The Handmaid's Tale_? HAVE YOU???!!!
-Raisinette
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