It came upon us suddenly, this urban chickening business. A friend was moving and needed to pass on the feathery friends, and since it had actually been an idea we'd been tossing around (like back and forth like a ball, from one to the other, taking turns; not collectively tossing, like spreading it on the table and taking a good look at it) we looked at each other shakily and said "sure..." and a-la-peanut-butter-sandwiches!! Here we are with two chickens! I have no idea what to do with them. I don't know from chickens at all. They've escaped at least twice already. One time I thought we'd lost them for good, but they were just in the neighbor's yard, pecking and scratching. I actually had to have a chicken-pro friend come over and find them for me. I hope they didn't lay an egg in their garden. So I am quickly becoming The Chicken Whisperer. The Chicken Wrangler. The CHICKENER.
That beautiful Rhode Island Red is Ruby in the shanty digs I rigged up for them until we can assemble a proper coop. I think she likes it. She's standing guard as Uncle Lucy nestles in one of the boxes.
Uncle Lucy, what are you doing? Why aren't you scratching and eating like you so love to do?