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| Romeo in the Willow |
Nature is a bitch. I'm going to just say that. I'm also going to come out and just say that if you really wanted to know if your husband loves you more than you will ever know, don't wish for flowers or a new ring. Just get a few chickens, let them shat allllll over the place (even on his beloved beer fridge) and just see what he does. If you wake up to a chicken coop and no chickens, then he might not love you as much as you thought. But if he just complains a little bit and keeps most of his gripes inside because he knows you love those feathery shit-factories, then you know he loves you. Point? Keith loves me. Mother Nature? Not as much.
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Romeo getting a snack
with the hens |
After a windy night a few months ago we woke up to the sound of silence. It was odd. Romeo, our adopted rooster, was not crowing at 3am. We waited a day and then Keith mentioned he hadn't seen our horny little rooster strutting his stuff lately. See, Romeo always slept in our willow tree. He never went back to his coop across the pasture and he never tried to shack up with his ladies (typical, right? He must have always "had an early meeting"). He always went into the tree, snuggled up and went to bed at 4:30pm every day. You can even see the pile of poop under "his spot." And since he never slept where he could be protected, then there wasn't much we could do. Isn't that like some men? You can't help them unless they allow themselves to be helped. So when it was windy, he couldn't stay in the tree and that's how it ended. Fortunately we never found a body. I would have been a mess if I found his beautiful body, headless like most of our birds have been found, laying in our yard. And since we didn't find a body, we held out hope for days. Keith even said to me, "I'm betting he comes back." He never did. He left a pile of poop and some feathers. And 7 very upset hens. But dang, he did live a good life. My sister in law said it perfectly, and if he had a little tombstone I would etch it in stone: He lived like a pimp. Well said.
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Broody little hen. I steal her dreams
of baby chicks daily. Sorry...but the eggs
are so yummy! |
And this is where my chicken love story starts. A few days later I put the chickens to "bed" which means 4 of them are smart enough to find their way back to the coop and go in, and 3 of them sit on top of the beer fridge outside and poop all over it while they watch us eat dinner. Just like every night before, I carried 3 chickens to bed, locked the door and that was it. The next morning only 6 chickens came out of the coop. Great. My neighbor had been telling me about a huge Red Tail hawk that has been picking off chickens in her yard, and since I didn't find a body again, that was the logical conclusion. But because I don't deal with death or anything sad very well, I made myself a chicken love story: See, the hen was so upset that she had to share Romeo with all those hens. She wanted him for himself, and he wanted to settle down, maybe make a nice family away from the craziness of the coop. So they made a poultry pact: Romeo told her he would leave in the night, leave a few feathers and head east. After the wind settled down and the moon came up a few nights in row, she was to leave and find him. Together they have a lovely life. She doesn't judge his past and he loves her and her beautiful brown eggs. The end. Now I have 6 chickens.
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| Life on the Ranch |
This next sentence may seem a bit selfish, but here goes: Why couldn't that one hen that "ran off" be the one that DIDN'T lay eggs or DIDN'T sit on the fridge? She was an egg layer and she put herself to bed. Good picking, Romeo. Damn.
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"Polly Pocket" holding strong while Diva tries to kick her
out of the warm spot. |
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| Chickens first snow |
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| Chicken visitation rights. |
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| He's still got the magic touch! |
