Saturday, March 31, 2012
Chickens, Parades, Weather
Mr. Moon and I got up early today for a Saturday as we were supposed to go to town and get Lily and Owen and Gibson and head over to Hank's for the annual Springtime Tallahassee Parade Party he always throws.
Go HERE for the link to last year's party. It was awesome.
Anyway, when we got up it sounded like a battle was being fought with cannonballs to the south of us so we pulled up the RADAR and oh, honey's. It does not look good. Severe storm warnings, etc. They'll probably have the parade and Hank will DEFINITELY have the party but I'm just thinking that taking a small boy and an almost-newborn to it is not the best idea. Hank's house isn't big enough to sling a cat in (not that we'd actually sling a cat, especially Hank's cat who is the meanest cat in the known world and who would slice us to bloody ribbons if we even entertained the thought) so...
I guess we won't be going.
I made enough apple cake last night to feed a whole bunch of hungry party people but oh well.
So here we sit in the growing gloom of the approaching weather and sirens just went by and the birds are whistling what sound to me like warnings of possible doom.
What cha gone do?
Drink some more coffee. Almost always a good plan.
So how are the baby chickens? you might ask.
They are so good.
Little Bit, or Bruiser is in with the big guys now. He finally settled down and became a member of the flock, which is good because chickens are flock animals and need to be with their brethren.
There he is in the corner. Isn't he cute? Yes. He is cute. And he looks good and they all seem healthy and that's five for five and we're proud of that. Mr. Moon actually gave Bruiser a few drops of his magic peep restorative formula the other night (crushed up Centrum Silver plus sugar plus water) and whether or not it saved his life or not, we do not know, but he's alive and fine.
We haven't named these chicks and it's starting to bother me. Well, Curly Sue, yes, we have named her and Bruiser- is that really going to be that chick's name? What if she turns out to be a hen? We HOPE she turns out to be a hen. We'd like for them all to turn out to be hens because we are wimps and sentimental and we are certainly not going to be able to slaughter and cook up chicken and dumplings with any of these babies which we birthed ourselves in our very own incubator should they turn out to be roosters.
No, we'll probably just turn them into pets and feed their useless asses for the rest of their cushy lives.
I told Mr. Moon what Syd had said a vet told him once after he tried to raise a litter of pups: Some people are just better off raising vegetables.
We both laughed because we ARE those people.
So anyway, we're stuck with these five birds forever and that's that. If we have five roosters, they're just going to have to learn to get along with each other and with the other chicks we already have. Elvis, Mable, Miss Bob, Ozzie, Sharon, Trixie, Flopsy, and Dahlia.
No one but me can look at those hens and tell you their names. If I die, they are nameless! Except for Ozzie who has that long crazy neck and Miss Bob who is the only non-black hen we currently have in the hen house. Even Owen knows their names.
But what are we going to name the babies? They have very distinctive markings, especially the one who looks like a little chipmunk. You can't name a chicken Munk. Well, I guess you could.
Okay. Plans are changing and reforming as we speak. I guess we're going into town anyway. Owen is desperate to go to the parade.
Gotta go! Maybe the weather will clear! Maybe a miracle will occur!
Who knows? Not me.
Happy Saturday, y'all. Send any chicken-name suggestions you got.