Sunday, December 27, 2009
If I had to guess, I’d say they’re supposed to be French. I mean, I can’t be sure, since I’ve never been able to distinguish French clucking from any other type of clucking – despite all my years on the board of the GPC1 – but I don’t know why else the hens would be wearing those black-and-white maid outfits. They’re certainly not doing anything that resembles cleaning.
We’ve had to sequester the hens in the screened-in porch to protect them from the dog. Now that Sonya has three new walking, clucking chew toys, she’s lost some interest in David Cassidy, especially since he has barely moved the past two days. She’s currently whining and scratching to be let out onto the porch.
Marcelle finally ventured downstairs, too. She isn’t your typical huntress of a cat – she’s been known to be scared by string – but once we deposited the trio of cluckers onto the porch, her curiosity got the better of her, and she spied the doves for the first time. She batted at one a couple of times before it retracted its head into its shell, after which she soon got bored and headed back upstairs.
As for the hens, we tend not to keep chicken feed in the house,2 so I had to go out and buy a large bag of it for them. If we could get some fresh eggs out of the deal, that would be wonderful, but a little bird told me we might need a rooster for that to happen.3 And I’m not buying a rooster.
Of course, with my luck, I’ll find four of them under the tree tomorrow morning…
1 Gonzo’s Poultry Council, est. 1978.
2 Surprising, I know.
3 Actually, it was a rather big little bird that told me. His exact words were: “You’re doing it all wrong, son! You need a — I say, you need a rooster, boy, or you’ll never get eggs!”