The big day finally arrived and we picked up our four chickens yesterday. Woo!
The morning started off with a flurry of activity. I hastily threw one last coat of paint on the coop because I figured it didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of being done after the chickens arrived. The humidity was freakishly 98% on Saturday (can you say global warming/overall climate apocalypse?). The paint was refusing to dry when my poor husband was given the
impossible challenging task of putting back on all of the coop pulleys and latches that had been removed for painting. Thanks honey, I think now is a great time to tell you how much I love you and can please take out the trash? But I digress…
We left my husband in the driveway cursing at the bag of coop hardware and took off for the farm. Twenty minutes and a few wrong turns later (it was all Siri’s fault) we arrived at chicken mecca, a.k.a., Georgetown, MA. Chris, super farming guy, greeted us and took us to his see his hens. They were in the Blair Witch-like basement of his barn (I mean this in a nice way). We were amazed at the sight of his one zillion chickens. He then asked me if I would like to go into the coop and pick up my new hens.
At this point, I realized something. I’m just going to come right out and say it, okay? I am freaked out by birds. Cute cardinals at my bird feeder and sparrows flying around in the sky are fine, but actually picking up a bird is different story. Is it going to peck at me? I mean, that just sounds unpleasant. My mind kept flashing back to a piece I heard on WBUR that morning about an Alfred Hitchcock biography.
Apparently, while making his super scary flick, “The Birds,” Mr. Hitchcock used REAL BIRDS to attack the actress in the penultimate scene. Ok, that’s not very nice. Mr. Hitchcock, no offense, but you sound like a real ass. Thanks to you, I have one super cool auntie who literally cannot be within one mile of a seagull. This makes a trip to the beach with her a challenge, but we love her anyway.
I suggested that my kids to go into the coop and help get the chickens. They recoiled and screeched, “no way!”
Chris took pity on us and effortlessly grabbed four hens and put them into our dog crate (sorry, Lucy). He gave us some advice and even offered to replace a bird if it
croakeddidn’t work out. How nice was that?! We thanked him and bombed home, anxious to get the girls settled.
We arrived home and the coop was ready: paint mostly dry and hardware re-attached. We brought the hens to their run and opened the crate door. They were frozen. I needed to move them. My mind flashed back to “The Birds”. Curse you, Alfred!
Husband: “Come on. Pick ‘em up! What, are you scared or something?”
Me: “No, of course not! “
I reached into their crate and grabbed, wincing in advance of the pain I was sure their little beaks would inflict upon me. But, they just flapped their wings and squawked a bit – no pecking involved. I put each one down in the run and they seemed happy as clams (does anyone really know if clams are happy, really?).
They looked around, scratched at the grass, drank some water and then one did the most amazing thing. Drumroll please…
It plucked a mosquito from the air and ate it.
Cue angels singing. One less bug in our bug-filled yard. Boom, in yo’ face Triple E! Take that West Nile!
Good job girls, you’ll fit in just fine around here.