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Education is never cheap, but. . . 15 out of the 20 chicks are gone. I hate it when the price of my education are paid with living sacrifices.
Through the blood, the guts and the gore, the remaining five chicks are now free ranging in the back yard. Hence, the red-tailed hawks and the night owl who have put my yard on their hunt circuit. I feel rather sadistic for finding joy in the hawks pruning their feathers in the garden. My poor chickies. What kind of Mama has life cursed you with?!?!? I haven't laid eyes on the owls yet, but I am enjoying their nightly concert. My poor chickies. . .
The chicks are in their awkward adolescence now. Even the smallest of them is more feather than fuzz. Perhaps the most awkward of them is the "meat chicken" we call, "Shaq." She/he is already bigger than the smallest of the old hens. If my ifs are in alignment, his/her cross-breed (Rock Game and Cornish) needs approximately 6 months to get from the egg shell to the dinner plate. She/he is comical in the swaying motion of all that meat on adolescent chicken bones. Still, his/her enormous size causes the other chicks to treat him/her like the Mother Hen. It makes it easier to herd the chicks. I just prod the slow, awkward "Mama" and the other chicks follow.
For now, there are two chicken flocks in the yard: the old hens and the chicks. Over the chaos of my amateur efforts to establish safe sleep arrangements for the chicks, they have increasingly insisted on hanging out in the makeshift structure where the old hens roost at night. God's leading the dance? I have shifted my focus from the couch-to-coop conversion and have been playing in the old hen's roost, trying to ply my sophomoric efforts to establish those safe sleep arrangements for the chicks inside the old hen's roost. Flock integration 101?
We see. . .
Through the blood, the guts and the gore, the remaining five chicks are now free ranging in the back yard. Hence, the red-tailed hawks and the night owl who have put my yard on their hunt circuit. I feel rather sadistic for finding joy in the hawks pruning their feathers in the garden. My poor chickies. What kind of Mama has life cursed you with?!?!? I haven't laid eyes on the owls yet, but I am enjoying their nightly concert. My poor chickies. . .
The chicks are in their awkward adolescence now. Even the smallest of them is more feather than fuzz. Perhaps the most awkward of them is the "meat chicken" we call, "Shaq." She/he is already bigger than the smallest of the old hens. If my ifs are in alignment, his/her cross-breed (Rock Game and Cornish) needs approximately 6 months to get from the egg shell to the dinner plate. She/he is comical in the swaying motion of all that meat on adolescent chicken bones. Still, his/her enormous size causes the other chicks to treat him/her like the Mother Hen. It makes it easier to herd the chicks. I just prod the slow, awkward "Mama" and the other chicks follow.
For now, there are two chicken flocks in the yard: the old hens and the chicks. Over the chaos of my amateur efforts to establish safe sleep arrangements for the chicks, they have increasingly insisted on hanging out in the makeshift structure where the old hens roost at night. God's leading the dance? I have shifted my focus from the couch-to-coop conversion and have been playing in the old hen's roost, trying to ply my sophomoric efforts to establish those safe sleep arrangements for the chicks inside the old hen's roost. Flock integration 101?
We see. . .
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I did the dumbest thing today. I charged my earbuds, unplugged the block and put the block in my little bag instead of the earbuds. I wasn't happy about that when I got to the gym. What a dummy!
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Ever since I stopped doing therapy because of insurance, I've been feeling that old tense and irritable sense of anxiety and stress. I hate that. I was making so many strides and changes during therapy, my therapist would acknowledge all of my progress and accomplishments, and I miss that reassurance. Today I thought about it, and I made those changes! She would always tell me that I chose to...
The collateral price of education can be high. . .
I almost can't eat the commercial eggs any more. Hubs tells me his mother's mother never could stand the commercial eggs or meat. She claimed, "I can taste their misery." I still haven't tried the home processed meat, but a year of eating the eggs has given me some glimpses of what she meant.