So I have chickens. 6 of them. If you knew me, you’d know that I’m not a chicken-raisin’ kind of girl. Chickens, farm life, nature…not my jam. Give me ice cold air conditioning over a rolled-down window any day. I’ll pick high heels over sneakers every time. Camping? Let’s be serious.
And yet, here I am with a chicken coop in my back yard, chicken feed, bedding and dare I say a few “Chicken – How To” books in my living room. I’m not proud of this. Why you ask? Why would a woman of zero interest in nature, allow these birds into my home? Because, you see…I’m a sucker.
I’m a sucker for fluffy little Easter-like chicks. So soft and cute. Like little balls of happiness. And why get just one when you can get six. I mean, c’mon, they were on sale!
Did you know that little chicks have to live inside until they’ve grown big enough to handle a certain temperature? Nope. Me either. So what did I do? Perfectionist that I am – my chickens cannot just live in a silly box. No. I made, what I like to refer to, as a Chicken Condo. A 2-bedroom condo with common entrance, leading my chicks to water and food, and a nice heat lamp for warmth at night. It was quite a dwelling.
Once they were big enough to handle the outdoors, we purchased a chicken coop. This was a lovely 6-room house with room to run. We picked up a larger water and food tray, a 10 lb bag of bedding and 50 lb bag of food. I mean, I’m fully invested now, people.
The experts will tell you not to name them. Mine are Buffy, Dollie, Penny, Coco, Gracie and Ashley. They all have different personalities, and they are so smart, I know with 100% certainty, they know their own names. True story.
For months I’ve taken care of these chickens. I’ve let them out in the morning, fed them, provided water & even worms – dried & bagged, not real – I’m not a savage. I’ve visited them in the afternoon and make sure they are safe in their little house every night, protected from wildlife.
I’m not gonna lie, I’ve come to love these little feathered friends.
And this week, much to my surprise, from inside of the house, at 6:30 a.m. I heard a noise. It wasn’t a familiar noise, so I went outside to get a closer listen. And there it was.
My chicken. Mine. The one I personally picked out. Was a roo. For all you non-farm people, a roo is short for rooster. This I know.
This is what I get for being a non-nature-loving-woman.
A rooster disguised a chicken.
to be continued…