Life in the slow lane

"Hey lady, what do you want?"

"We're tired, can't you tell?"

"Seriously...zzz...go...zzz...away...zzzzzzzzzzz."

Despite the squawking, chirping and flapping of wings, they're more like babies than I thought they'd be. Eat, poop, sleep, repeat. A routine highly reminiscent of the baby days.

While I was at work yesterday the girls made a sign for the coop,

Kevin installed a short door and half wall between the storage space and where the birds' nesting boxes and roosts will be,

and John helped a tremendous amount, so the story goes, nailing up paneling inside and helping install the roosts and this guillotine-style hen door that will lead to their yard.



There is an irony in this whole process that I hope is not going unnoticed. The chickens are getting great care from a certain man who has told me more than once, "These are chickens, not pets, we will not get emotionally attached, we are not naming them" and so on and so forth. Yet, he reports to me about their various personalities and habits and has dedicated great thought, time and care into their dwelling space. I'm thinking he cares more than he lets on.

Much to his dismay they all now have names thanks in great part to one of my nieces. They are: Peck, Dorothy, Spot, Chirp, Cloud, Sleepy, Snowy, and Lucy. Fortunately I'm managing to keep them alive.