Chickens

We have three remaining chickens out of the four we were given. We suspect the neighbor’s dog might be the culprit that disappeared the missing chicken, but we can’t be sure so we just keep an eye on the little bastard when he comes to visit and play with Mollie or Mr B’s goofy dog.

We sometimes let the chickens come out of the chicken house for the day, although that happens less frequently than it used to. See, the little fuckers don’t want to go back to their chicken house at night, and we’re all getting annoyed with chasing chickens every day.

They roost up on top of Sunshine’s electric meat smoker if we decide we are not chasing them back to their chicken house. Which, gross. Because chickens poop indiscriminately. The little bastards also want to eat the catfood every morning when I feed the never-diminishing cat population that has sprung up around here.

As if all of that isn’t annoying enough, the rooster starts squawking well before the sun comes up. Since the smoker is not far from my bedroom window, the little bastard wakes me up with his honking and squawking. He doesn’t crow like a rooster should. It’s a weird squawk, and I hate waking up to a noise that sounds like the chicken is choking on catfood.

Which brings me to the point of this rant.

Mr B let the chickens out yesterday morning and then promptly loaded up with Mrs B and their sister-in-law and headed out of town. Sunshine and I worked late yesterday and didn’t feel like chasing chickens in the dark when we hadn’t even eaten dinner yet.

So this morning, on opening day of deer season, I heard Sunshine leave to go sit in a tree and watch for a deer to shoot; I had pretty much gotten back to sleep when that fucking rooster started his godawful squawking.

Thanks, Mr B.

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