Last night, I did the chores. I got home at a decent time, Andy was at a volleyball game, Kat at a birthday party. My dream was for some quiet time, but that didn't happen.
The cat's had dumped 10 lbs of cat food all over the kitchen, so after cleaning that, I decided I might as well do chores.
I like feeding, but sometimes it feels like running that gauntlet. I stepped outside the back door, with catfood bucket in hand for the outside cats. All 17 of them were weaving between my feet while I navigated the course to the shed. Seeing that the cats were getting fed, 20 or so chickens joined the parade. Cats were trying to trip me, chickens were headed in from all directions for the kill. If I went down, all would be lost. I'd be eaten alive by hungry cats and chickens. My family would find my bones laying there in the grass...
I fed the cats successfully, and decided to gather the eggs, check the chicken feeders and waterers. Before entering the chicken pen, I picked up the baseball bat. The alumnium baseball bat. It's for protection from the rooster. He has been known to attack--without warning. He's left me alone since early summer when I booted his little hiney across the pen, but I don't trust the little bugger. Spurs hurt. And, to be honest, I don't think he's as threatened by my now that his harem has increased, and he has the young whippersnapper roosters to be more concerned about.
Chickens weaving around your feet is just about as bad as having cats weave around your feet. They know that I'm going to toss out some scratch grains, so they stick close to me. Walking in the pen is an adventure; watching where I step to avoid poop, to avoid stepping on a hen, while keeping one eye on the rooster.
They flood into the henhouse behind me, eager for their treat. Then, they rush back outside as I fling cups of scratch grain around the pen. Four cupfuls, and I'm guarenteed enough time to gather eggs, fill feeders, check the water and make sure all is well inside.
I've got two hens who never go outside. They are my lonely two Americana hens, my hope for blue and green eggs. Being "different," they remain inside to avoid the attentions of the randy roosters and the pecking of the hens. These two girls get special attention, a little grain set up on the nesting boxes where they can eat in peace. They coo at me, and let me fill the feeders and then gather the eggs.
Since the days are getting shorter, I've been getting fewer eggs. Where early in the fall, I would get 22-25 daily, now I'm getting 15-20 daily. Yesterday, I counted 12. Twelve is unacceptable. So, as I leave the henhouse, I stop and lecture my 30 hens. "Now girls, there are 12 eggs here. 12. That's unacceptable. There are 30 of you, this means less than half of you are doing your job. I know the days are shorter, but I want more eggs. I expect to see more tomorrow. If you can't fulfill your quota, there's always the stewpot." They don't listen. They all cluck contentedly as they munch on their evening grain.
I carried my eggs into the house to put them away. Got out a carton and told Andy about there only being 12 eggs. He came to watch, as I filled up the carton...and found 5 extra eggs in my basket. We both laughed, because instead of 12, there were 18. I obviously can't count. I spent 5 minutes lecturing my hens, and I can't count. We'll see if my lecture did any good.
When it got dark, I ran out to shut the chickens up for the night. All now roost inside, as it's warmer there. I take a quick peek inside, hearing the coos and clucks as they jockey for spots on the roosts. I tell them good night, and that I'm sorry I lied about there only being 12 eggs. With that, I shut the door. "Goodnight girls. I still want 20 eggs tomorrow."
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