When one lives on a plot of land that is home to a Progress Energy transformer, one must occasionally open up the property for utility work access. This may include random numbers of safety-green-vest-clad workers roaming your property with heavy equipment and ladders–like today, for instance. As a homeowner, I understand these things. As a chicken, there is no such level of understanding. Oh my, goshensakes, no.
Today, the chickens got their fill of man tools, trucks and cranes, 20-foot ladders, spittin’ n smokin’ n chewin’ n all the testosterone that comes along with sweaty men in tool belts and hardhats. (And for the human female population, I’ll vouch that the scenery wasn’t half-bad. Except for the smokers, who are automatically disqualified–and who were kindly asked to cease and desist doing such things on my property.)
There was much BOK-BOK-BOKing going on from inside the coop, where the girls skedaddled after the first ladder-clad gent shuffled by. There was no calming down of the ruffled feathers–literally and figuratively. I tried bribing them with spinach. Nothin’. Black oil sunflower seeds? Nada. Mozarella cheese? Ahh, that’s the ticket. After a brief Q&A with the workers about hen-keeping and the origin of green eggs, I advised them to talk sweetly to the girls when they got upset. Of course I ignored the raised eyebrows and the ‘are you serious’ sideways looks. Yes, I’m serious.
Back in the house, an hour later, and the cacophony of BOKing starts again. Incredibly, I hear a deep voice croon, “It’s okaaaay, it’s alright.” Hahaaa, delightful. I didn’t have the heart to admit that all the sweet-talkin’ in the world wouldn’t make a beakful of difference to those girls if the voice wasn’t my own.
Finally they left. Two hours with no air conditioning, and the house was getting hot. Just before I’d have been forced to don my granny suit and head out to cool off in the pool….
A quick visit to reassure the girls their lives weren’t in mortal danger, and I’m back at work. Just another day for my city hens.