Welllll, we have enjoyed some chickening this week.
Big guy, the rooster, is in rare form, humping anything that stands still for long enough. Which is mostly shoes. He has a fetish. I’m not kink shaming my boy, I’m just saying that he’s the sort that would join in a video conference about star trek and be DMimg “show feet” to everyone.
Except! The chicken boots. He does not like the chicken boots. My wife and kid wanted boots for being out in the yard after rains and such. These boots are rubber or vinyl or whatever, and have silly chicken drawings on them. And he hates those boots. He will follow them around, pecking the boots every few steps He will also make his angry teakettle noise at the boots. Meanwhile, I take two steps, he grabs the strap on my crocs and is quickly shivering in joy. Repeat every few steps until he’s worn himself out.
You just have to roll with it. This is my life now, having my shoes molested by a rooster because it’s easier than trying to run him off.
Now, baby bird, my lovely little marans beauty, is in fine fettle. Sassy, silly, and sweet. She has taken to climbing me every evening when she comes in. Why? Because chicken. She starts out on her seat on the couch. Yes, she has her own spot, and you would be wise to move if you are there and see her coming. But she’ll hop on my leg, then climb up my chest, then down to the other leg, then onto the arm of the couch.
And then she goes the other direction. Sometimes, she’ll pause under my beard and make sweet noises at me. Other times, she scolds me. I have zero clue what causes either, and I’m not sure she does. But, eventually, she stays on the arm of the couch, boks at me until she gets pets, then turns a few circles before flapping her tail and settling in for the night.
She had been walking across my legs with no issues previously. But, hey, I guess I’m like Everest; it’s there, so you climb it.
That is, unless she’s extra lazy. Then, she’ll hop on my leg and buuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrk until I put my wrist in front of her. She’ll hop on, I’ll move her to the other leg, she hops off, and then to the arm of the couch. Whereupon, she will buuuuuuurrrrrrrkkk again until I extend my wrist so she can take the ride the other direction. Sometimes, she needs five or six trips before she decides the couch arm is satisfactory.
Why do I cooperate, you ask? Because chicken. She’s adorable. It makes us both happy. I think. It makes me happy. It may just give her a feeling of superiority over her monkey minions, but she does eventually do her circle, tail flap, and trill, so I call that happy.
Volunteer hen though? Her little bantam bottom is verklempt. See, there was a hurricane last year. My crippled ass is still trying to fix everything all these months later. It’s slow going, but I’m at the point now where I’m clearing brush and taking down damaged limbs.
This means I’m out there an hour or so most days, running an electric chainsaw while my kid is dragging the detritus to a pile. This is not okay. That is her yard, and she will not put up with our shit one second longer. She stomps back and forth, just screaming at us almost the entire time we’re out there.
If you’ve never seen a severely annoyed bantam hen stomping and squawking at a teenager that has had their boots pecked repeatedly, you haven’t lived.
Alas, volunteer hen ran afowl of something. Her comb has been injured. Which, catching the little bugger was hilarious to watch. The sight of a teenager trying desperately to not fall over while cornering a bird that could just jump, flap a few times, and be over their head? Priceless. As were the bevy of curse words while I filmed exactly that happening.
However, my kid is a determined and capable chicken jockey. The bird was eventually in the hand, and an inspection made. I don’t know what happened, but part of her comb got torn off. I know she had gotten stuck in some briars at one point the day before, but the day before that, she had been extra annoyed, and stayed well away from us, so I’m not sure exactly when it happened, so it could have been anything. It’s healing, and I made sure it was clean and not infected, then applied some antiseptic and let her go before she popped a gasket screaming at me.
And, of course, her adorable little bantam butt was stomping off into the shrubbery, calling us all sorts of vile things, in chicken. She sees us inspect the other birds, so I’m not sure why she’s so indignant when it’s her turn finally. Gotta check feet and such in good lighting, so we do it outdoors, and with a flashlight handy to eliminate shadows. Bumblefoot is no joke, so we don’t mess around waiting for someone to limp, we check the feetses a few times a week, except for volunteer hen because she be fast running away when we start picking the other two up. Her, we check as best we can, and just deal with a few days where she’s all butthurt and won’t come as close as usual. But, I figure if she’s running fast enough to escape inspection, she ain’t too bad off anyway.
Welllll, we have enjoyed some chickening this week.
Big guy, the rooster, is in rare form, humping anything that stands still for long enough. Which is mostly shoes. He has a fetish. I’m not kink shaming my boy, I’m just saying that he’s the sort that would join in a video conference about star trek and be DMimg “show feet” to everyone.
Except! The chicken boots. He does not like the chicken boots. My wife and kid wanted boots for being out in the yard after rains and such. These boots are rubber or vinyl or whatever, and have silly chicken drawings on them. And he hates those boots. He will follow them around, pecking the boots every few steps He will also make his angry teakettle noise at the boots. Meanwhile, I take two steps, he grabs the strap on my crocs and is quickly shivering in joy. Repeat every few steps until he’s worn himself out.
You just have to roll with it. This is my life now, having my shoes molested by a rooster because it’s easier than trying to run him off.
Now, baby bird, my lovely little marans beauty, is in fine fettle. Sassy, silly, and sweet. She has taken to climbing me every evening when she comes in. Why? Because chicken. She starts out on her seat on the couch. Yes, she has her own spot, and you would be wise to move if you are there and see her coming. But she’ll hop on my leg, then climb up my chest, then down to the other leg, then onto the arm of the couch.
And then she goes the other direction. Sometimes, she’ll pause under my beard and make sweet noises at me. Other times, she scolds me. I have zero clue what causes either, and I’m not sure she does. But, eventually, she stays on the arm of the couch, boks at me until she gets pets, then turns a few circles before flapping her tail and settling in for the night.
She had been walking across my legs with no issues previously. But, hey, I guess I’m like Everest; it’s there, so you climb it.
That is, unless she’s extra lazy. Then, she’ll hop on my leg and buuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrk until I put my wrist in front of her. She’ll hop on, I’ll move her to the other leg, she hops off, and then to the arm of the couch. Whereupon, she will buuuuuuurrrrrrrkkk again until I extend my wrist so she can take the ride the other direction. Sometimes, she needs five or six trips before she decides the couch arm is satisfactory.
Why do I cooperate, you ask? Because chicken. She’s adorable. It makes us both happy. I think. It makes me happy. It may just give her a feeling of superiority over her monkey minions, but she does eventually do her circle, tail flap, and trill, so I call that happy.
Volunteer hen though? Her little bantam bottom is verklempt. See, there was a hurricane last year. My crippled ass is still trying to fix everything all these months later. It’s slow going, but I’m at the point now where I’m clearing brush and taking down damaged limbs.
This means I’m out there an hour or so most days, running an electric chainsaw while my kid is dragging the detritus to a pile. This is not okay. That is her yard, and she will not put up with our shit one second longer. She stomps back and forth, just screaming at us almost the entire time we’re out there.
If you’ve never seen a severely annoyed bantam hen stomping and squawking at a teenager that has had their boots pecked repeatedly, you haven’t lived.
Alas, volunteer hen ran afowl of something. Her comb has been injured. Which, catching the little bugger was hilarious to watch. The sight of a teenager trying desperately to not fall over while cornering a bird that could just jump, flap a few times, and be over their head? Priceless. As were the bevy of curse words while I filmed exactly that happening.
However, my kid is a determined and capable chicken jockey. The bird was eventually in the hand, and an inspection made. I don’t know what happened, but part of her comb got torn off. I know she had gotten stuck in some briars at one point the day before, but the day before that, she had been extra annoyed, and stayed well away from us, so I’m not sure exactly when it happened, so it could have been anything. It’s healing, and I made sure it was clean and not infected, then applied some antiseptic and let her go before she popped a gasket screaming at me.
And, of course, her adorable little bantam butt was stomping off into the shrubbery, calling us all sorts of vile things, in chicken. She sees us inspect the other birds, so I’m not sure why she’s so indignant when it’s her turn finally. Gotta check feet and such in good lighting, so we do it outdoors, and with a flashlight handy to eliminate shadows. Bumblefoot is no joke, so we don’t mess around waiting for someone to limp, we check the feetses a few times a week, except for volunteer hen because she be fast running away when we start picking the other two up. Her, we check as best we can, and just deal with a few days where she’s all butthurt and won’t come as close as usual. But, I figure if she’s running fast enough to escape inspection, she ain’t too bad off anyway.
I love these damn birds.