My poor abused chicken.
It all started when I went to the grocery store. At least, I meant to go to the grocery store, but it was a beautiful spring day and somehow I ended up at the nursery. The nursery with trickling water, shady nooks, flats of flowers, isles of rose bushes, two Saint Bernard’s sleeping in the sun and a friendly cat with a bell around its neck.
Somehow, intoxicated by the warm sun on my skin and the sound of a garden hose, I ended up with four six packs of petunias. That might be fine for someone who lives on a plantation, but my humble flower bed didn’t know what to do with itself. I just couldn‘t pull out my spring flowers, they are be-au–tiful right now, so I smushed everyone together in a friendly sort of way and hoped the flowers remembered their manners.
When I work in my garden, I get the insane notion that everyone should behave properly while I play in the dirt.
We took half of our playroom outside, and Q helped tremendously by throwing dirt at the dog and trying to climb on my back and take a free horsey ride. At one point, I forgot about the dog. I heard a strange cry and thinking Sheldon had finally had enough nap time, I went inside. It was then I realized that my stupid dog was trying to kill my chicken out in the back yard. I saved her and went inside to chastise the dog and drink some water, because anyone who has been surprised by multiple horsey rides knows, it’s exhausting.
I looked out my slider mid sip and noticed that Q was wearing a burka. A burka made from the blanket I throw over the chicken pen at night. Disgusting. I told him that it was dirty and PROBABLY HAS CHICKEN POOP ON IT (!) but he insisted on wearing it until I pried it from his little fingers.
Then he started chasing Peakie around with a broom and shrieking. The chicken wisely retreated to its pen, and lately it’s been consoling itself by digging around my flowers and pooping on my porch. Even chickens believe in revenge I guess.
In other news, my mother sent me a picture of idiocy:
This humming bird has decided to make a nest on a piece of sea glass unprofessionally wrapped around a sliver of wire by my mother. It’s poor parenting choices like this that explain why you don’t see flocks of hummingbirds mucking about. And, by mucking, I mean flying.
Which reminds me that I saw a crow and a hawk fighting in mid flight this afternoon. It was a noisy event, because crows are mouthy.
I guess my point is, if go to the grocery store in spring you will probably end up with a frustrated chicken and an overabundance of petunias.