April 2017
April 11, 2017 Springtime, along with an impressive to do list, means the pitter patter of little feet on a farm. I assume. I speak with little authority here, since I'm not super authentic with my farming. For me, the little feet belong to mice, in case there were any doubt that I haven't earned my Farmer Badge. (There's a serious don't let mice have babies in your chicken coop clause on that.) Twelve if you're counting. I am, because I have to catch the little critters. I've read plenty about chickens, and by all accounts, these ladies should be stellar mousers. My chickens have read nothing and are blissfully unaware of natural chicken behavior, flying to the top of their fence to escape the furry monsters that threaten their existence. As my husband has called in sick to farming this week due to the flu (I'm not mentioning that clause violation), this leaves me to single-handedly run an intricate mouse relocation plan while deeply entrench...