It’s amazing how my chickens have figured out my lack of fortitude, every afternoon when I have to hobble around the yard cussing them out trying to get them all back in the run before work, I tell myself “nope, not tomorrow, not doing it”.
And then I do it. The joys of releasing them as they take a bouncy flight directly to the wild bird feeder to see if they can find any dropped suet. Scratching around in the cool wet dirt as it’s been a blistering summer, clucking back and forth discussing their finds. Blondie chasing the little ones. The big girls chasing the little ones, such is the circle of life.
And then it’s time for me to get ready to go to work. I prepare my bag of grapes, the three oldest are determined to trip and further injure my knee as I limp towards the run door. Paloma jumps up and pecks the bag as I am taking too long to dispense them. I calculate throwing the grapes to the furthest corner of the run so the big ones are longer preoccupied as I try to quickly coerce the other five to run in before the meanies return for more gluttonous grapes. They make a run for it.. except Blondie as she doesn’t understand the concept of running in the open door. Nah, she runs straight into the corner. I chase her around for another ten minutes before I can corner her and make a grab. I ceremoniously toss her into the coop before any others can weasel out.
That is a good day mind you. It worsens dependent on how many times I have escapees, how full of grapes they are, and how vigilant they feel being, well, vigilantes. These variables can lead to a truly frustrating situation where I temporarily lose sanity.
No, Aliss, she wasn't being insubordinate by standing in a tub of salt water while I held her there. Stinker. Brat.
