There are those mothers–new moms, usually–who make a practice of boring their friends and acquaintances to tears (or wine) while new mom brags on and on about little Johnny’s first poo, his latest excursion across the kitchen floor, the color and texture of his most recent deposit on the burp rag. “Aww, isn’t that cute?!” Sigh.
I hope that my blog posts are not reflective of these legendary motherhood-induced rants and raves that succeed only in blowing the bored pupils out of my friends’ and families’ eyes. Like a new mom, I am proud of my babies’ accomplishments–even if it’s a hen’s first egg or the semi-integration of my flock after three long months of plan-adjusting. And this blog is my way of tracking these momentous occasions–for the history books of backyard chicken-keeping, of course, and for the really cool blog subscribers who’ve chosen to read my blurbs. But I never want to risk boring you.
So, to ramp up the edgy factor in tonight’s blog, let’s start with a little drama with a few facts from my weekend. First, my pool drained completely into my already drenched backyard (after two days of almost record-setting rain in St. Pete), one of my kitties announced that she had a raging UTI on Saturday morning when all vets except the $800/hour emergency clinic were closed, and my air conditioner went on the fritz on this, the second official day of summer. In Florida. When it’s 93 degrees with 89% humidity. How’s that for drama?
As far as chicken drama, there hasn’t been any, I’m thrilled to report! The daily hunt for bugs in the grass, the animated response to a new wedge of watermelon on a hot day, maybe the appearance of a curious hawk on the telephone wire above. All those are little bits and pieces of City Hen drama. And honestly, that’s all I want.
At the end of the day, I look for happiness in the little things: when my flock is safely ensconced in their chambers for the evening, all bellies are full, feathers are preened, the neighborhood hawks have flown to other yards for observatory duties, and four sets of precious clawed feet are wrapped around the highest coop perches my dad could build. And then there’s this: tonight–for the first time–two young hens walked into the big gals’ domicile and climbed right up into the coop before Goldie and Marge waddled in. Two minutes later, Henrietta and Mabelene were PERCHED on the ROOST in the big gals’ coop! (Stop me if I sound like I’m talking about little Johnny’s latest upchuck.) What a moment. My mother hen breast inflated with pride, and I couldn’t help thinking all was right with the world, even if it was only until the big gals came upstairs a few minutes later and chased ’em down for the night.
Progress, my good readers, progress! It doeth continue.
Babies in the big coop.