So I got most of the old straw raked out of the big chickenhouse and into their yard. And Agnes the Red was mingling happily with all the other hens half-again her size as if she’d been part of their flock all along, just as if they hadn’t lined up for the chance to give her little red-feather wedgies just a week ago. Which is good, because there was another egg not of her manufacture (just one, but it’s a keeper) and that means it’s time to get serious about the nesting boxes. So I scraped a very great deal of chicken shit off the shelves in the corner, and set up the milk crates and half-filled them with straw – leaving alone the one on the top shelf that Agnes has appropriated for herself. I’ve witnessed them allowing her to join in on the food and water, and so she can sleep on the shelf if she wants but I’m damned if she’s getting any more room service.
For a few minutes, while all this was going on, she actually came over and watched me evict her. And the damndest song popped into my head – I remembered almost all the words, which should give you some idea just how badly I mis-spent my youth. And I proceeded to sing to her as I worked…
(Private to Landlady: Please don’t buy any more straw from wherever you got that bale. They ripped you off. I can get better locally.)
