Today, as I was letting the chickens out of their coop, I saw this in the straw:
Our little miracle. I’m thinking it was one of the Australorps’ or Black Sex Links’, because it is a perfectly pale shade of brown. It is perfect, small, and has gone a long way toward justifying the existence of my five avian terrorists, who have taken over my garden and decimated every new plant I try to hide from them.
And the chicken-yelling! No one told me about their tendency to call out LOUDLY when they see me. If the back door opens, they start calling. At a decibel a foghorn would envy.
I was beginning to mutter around them, “yeah, you want food? Give me an egg, and we’ll talk.” But now, with the arrival of the one perfect little egg, I feel much more loving. I ignore their yelling and focus on the way they coo at night when they’re all perched on their roost when I shut them in for the night. I ignore the big holes in my backyard and focus on the adorable ritual of their dustbaths.
I’m a sucker for an egg, what can I say?