Friday, June 22, 2012

Arguing with chickens is futile

Life on the farm involves many things, I thought I would never do: wake up at 4am to feed a goat, murder beetles with soapy water, use a pitchfork, and last but not least swear (sorry grandma) at a chicken repeatedly.
It all started at 5am, an hour earlier than usual in order to cover the blueberries from the creatures sent by the  monarch of the north, needless to say I was not a happy farmer . We pick for about 7ish hours and then are given a break for lunch with the gleaming hope that maybe we won't get called back to work for the rest of the day! I do a little dance, eat a lot of peanut butter, and cue up to watch some hardcore Netflix. Then we are informed that we will be picking another row of raspberries at 5:15 that evening...I drag my almost permanently glued butt off my chair and put back on my very sweaty clothes. It was really not a big deal or source of contempt until 8:30pm came around and we were not yet done picking. Already late for animal chores by the time we were released I hurry to the basement, prepare the goat's bottle, and hustle over to the barn. Drink, drink, drink, feed, feed, feed, alright time to put the chickens to bed. As I approach the chicken's field I unhinge ad swing open the fence eyeing one lone hen just chilling out looking at the coup. Now, we are supposed to wait until all the chickens go to bed and then we can lock up the door to the coup and say our good nights and my boss said we shouldn't have to touch them to get them to bed. SO I wait, and wait, and wait, and call my mom to kill some time, and then the lovely, wonderful, delightful hen hops under the coup. She is now UNDER the coup versus IN the coup, insert a string of profanity here. I peer underneath and try soothing her out, with sweetness which quickly turns into "you dumb fucking chicken PLEASE go to bed, please you are so stupid". Both tactics are fruitless, and as I lay on my stomach peering at this animal I can't help but wish I wasn't a vegetarian because I would take such great satisfaction in eating this idiot bird.
I eventually go up to the house and tell my boss about the hen situation. She lets me know that the hen is probably sick and dying and then says, " I'll take care of it, if I can't get her in the coup I will put her in the barn and she might just die, so you may find a dead chicken in the morning."
Well...awesome, catholic guilt sets in and I feel terrible for not only swearing at this poor exhausted hen, but I   also wished I could have eaten her! But the good news is that with catholic guilt comes heaven's reassurance, and I'm sure I can find some mention of a hen afterlife somewhere in that old leather bound Jesus thing.
-Jam Sand
PS. She isn't dead...yet. This evening for chores I had to poke her with a long branch to get her out from under the coup, but I did so while apologizing  vs. spewing insults so I feel a tad bit better about myself and my character.

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