The clucking box

I’m officially a chicken farmer. Just got my chicken house finished up at the carpentry workshop. All the Africans chuckled to watch me walking down the road with a loud, big, fluttering cardboard box full of feathered friends. Well, I guess they are friends, at least for a while. I’ve named them – Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner, Snacky, Noodle Soup, Carolina BBQ Chick, Tender Clucker, Finger-lickin Chicken, Roasty Toasty, and Kentucky Fried. There are some problems, like that fact that I don’t really know much about chickens. I mean, our family had chickens when I was growing up, but I don’t remember any of the important stuff. I do remember that chicken coop smelled so bad. It was eerie and dark. Sometimes snakes would get in and eat the eggs. I hated having to shoo those chickens away to collect the eggs, they would try to peck at me as I did it. But here there aren’t many snakes, and I put the chickens somewhat far away so I can’t smell them. They are for meat, so won’t be around long enough to make eggs. Plus, they are going to serve multiple purposes. Chicken poop is supposed to be awesome fertilizer, so my garden is about to be amazing. And they are going to eat all my leftover vegetable scraps so I have less trash to throw away. The more I think of this, it is a great idea! Actually, I initially decided to get the chickens because I am cheap. Anyone who knows me would say that. My sister prefers the term “tightwad”. I’m not cheap toward others, just myself. I don’t waste money. So, when I wanted a chicken and it was going to cost over $10, I said, “heck no, I’ll raise my own darn chickens!”. And so, that’s where it started. Within an hour or so I had found someone to make my chicken house. And now they are all snuggled up together holding out until morning when I will feed them again.