- Feb 5, 2009
- 3,808
- 15
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Will this chicken addiction never stop?! I was watching my chickens this morning (chicken TV rocks!), and they inspired me to write a story about their crazy morning antics. So I thought, hey, the people on BYC will understand my chicken addiction
My hens have me writing stories about them, whatever will they do to me next?
The chickens stood attentive, watching, waiting. Besides the disgruntled swearing from the broody hen as she fussed over her beautiful golf balls, all was silence. The hens merely looked, poised like miniature velociraptors who had just scented a most delectable prey, for the garage door had opened. And that could only mean one thing. . .
Food! bawked the feisty Rhode Island Red as she saw an upright, bipedal figure in the distance. The others echoed this sentiment, cackling as they recognized the almighty food-giver striding towards them from the Big Coop. They clawed at the ground. They paced. All the while their little minds were crowded with the most scrumptious thoughts; the soggy, mushy taste of leftover cereal, and the fuzzy, stale taste of over-aged bread. The endless possibilities crowded all else, and the hens began screaming like little chicks with expectation. One of the hens gave a particularly loud scream.
The figure was nearly there!
All at once the chickens crowded the door, pushing and shoving each other to be the first out the door to the green-stalks-that-taste-good. However, as soon as they were all arranged in front of the door, panic ensued. Why wasnt the door opening? What was taking so long? Was it stuck, and they were to be left to starve?! The tension was more than the hens could bear, a torture that never seemed to end. The Rhode Island Reds began hopping up and down like kernels launched out of a popcorn popper.
Suddenly, the door creaked.
A hushed silence befell the chickens. A shaft of sunlight began leaking into the coop as every excruciating millisecond passed, revealing the mess within that only chickens could make. Slowly, ever so slowly, the door opened, and all the while, the hens watched with unbroken, calculating gazes. It was almost open.
But almost was close enough.
Screeching in tones that sounded like battle cries, the chickens hurled themselves into the crack of the opening door, pushing and shoving with a ferocity many would not expect of such mild-mannered hens. But they all knew what was at stake: freedom, green things to eat, and dirt-they-must-not-dig lay on the other side. As the opening became wider, they streamed out and over the feet of the figure, not caring that they scared the daylights out of the food-giver. The Rhode Island Reds zoomed like feathery rockets out into the sunshine, shortly followed by the Orpingtons, bouncing like furry inflated beach balls.
During the frenzy, they had called and cawed to each other. Now, there was just the ripping sound of grass being torn from its roots, and happy hens munching to their hearts content. There was no more conversation. After all, there was much to be done. The life of a spoiled-rotten free-ranged hen is like that, busy beyond comparison.
You are laughing?! You food-givers just dont understand.
The chickens stood attentive, watching, waiting. Besides the disgruntled swearing from the broody hen as she fussed over her beautiful golf balls, all was silence. The hens merely looked, poised like miniature velociraptors who had just scented a most delectable prey, for the garage door had opened. And that could only mean one thing. . .
Food! bawked the feisty Rhode Island Red as she saw an upright, bipedal figure in the distance. The others echoed this sentiment, cackling as they recognized the almighty food-giver striding towards them from the Big Coop. They clawed at the ground. They paced. All the while their little minds were crowded with the most scrumptious thoughts; the soggy, mushy taste of leftover cereal, and the fuzzy, stale taste of over-aged bread. The endless possibilities crowded all else, and the hens began screaming like little chicks with expectation. One of the hens gave a particularly loud scream.
The figure was nearly there!
All at once the chickens crowded the door, pushing and shoving each other to be the first out the door to the green-stalks-that-taste-good. However, as soon as they were all arranged in front of the door, panic ensued. Why wasnt the door opening? What was taking so long? Was it stuck, and they were to be left to starve?! The tension was more than the hens could bear, a torture that never seemed to end. The Rhode Island Reds began hopping up and down like kernels launched out of a popcorn popper.
Suddenly, the door creaked.
A hushed silence befell the chickens. A shaft of sunlight began leaking into the coop as every excruciating millisecond passed, revealing the mess within that only chickens could make. Slowly, ever so slowly, the door opened, and all the while, the hens watched with unbroken, calculating gazes. It was almost open.
But almost was close enough.
Screeching in tones that sounded like battle cries, the chickens hurled themselves into the crack of the opening door, pushing and shoving with a ferocity many would not expect of such mild-mannered hens. But they all knew what was at stake: freedom, green things to eat, and dirt-they-must-not-dig lay on the other side. As the opening became wider, they streamed out and over the feet of the figure, not caring that they scared the daylights out of the food-giver. The Rhode Island Reds zoomed like feathery rockets out into the sunshine, shortly followed by the Orpingtons, bouncing like furry inflated beach balls.
During the frenzy, they had called and cawed to each other. Now, there was just the ripping sound of grass being torn from its roots, and happy hens munching to their hearts content. There was no more conversation. After all, there was much to be done. The life of a spoiled-rotten free-ranged hen is like that, busy beyond comparison.
You are laughing?! You food-givers just dont understand.
