April 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 entrenched in Operation Hatch a Baby Mango as I try to convince Juniper and Marigold that sleeping inside the chicken coop will be fine and I promise to evict the tiny interlopers.
This is how I came to be standing in the dark, past my bedtime, with a chicken in one hand and a spoonful of peanut butter in the other when one wee brave soul scampered across my foot causing me to shout, "Francois!" (As an aside - don't name them, it only makes it harder to let go.) This evidently piqued the curiosity of Amin, because he paused in the recitations of his last will and testament and curses on the inferior vitamin C content of our oranges long enough to inquire as to my late night, al fresco activities. My answer?
"Farming."
Because that's how I do it.
Fortunately, all but two of the babies have been successfully relocated. Unfortunately, I'd be in violation of program rules if I shared the details of their new location or identities. The final two are quite safely in holding where they are being well cared for until they can be safely transported.



Comments
Post a Comment