.....Well, as usual here at the Bumbling Blogger, I do get my photos mixed up, but I will ignore this and soldier on.
Sometime after I put this little space to bed I got some chickens. They were almost adolescents by the time my pen was ready. Hence, the inability to tame them and still the problem of sexing them. I started with an "A" and went through the alphabet. That rooster that you see was named Alice. He has subsequently been called Alice the Phallus. He is a good rooster;not a mean bone in his body.
There is Betty the little Leghorn, so dependable. She is the postal person of the chicken world. Neither snow nor sleet nor darkness of the night gets in the way of her appointed rounds. She damned well lays. Hooray for tiny Betty.
There is Carmen, the Sex Link (I think) who delivers the most huge eggs. It's a wonder that she can still walk. Oh, the pain!
And, then there is Mrs. Dickens, as in Mrs. Charles Dickens who lost her counterpoint because Charles Dickens was meaner than a snake, untrustworthy and a general degenerate of the highest order. He was capable of striking fear into the heart of the most brave of chickens, not to mention the hearts of the humans who live here. Mrs. Dickens was never one to overwhelm you with eggs: One here, mark four or five days or maybe six... sometimes twelve days later; and then Mrs. D. disappeared. She disappeared into nowhere. I was convinced that she was dead as a doornail. A week went by and she finally appeared and all of the little chicken brains from the rest of the flock did not recognize her. They pecked at her (oh, the loser of The Dances with the Chickens). She ran off again, came back, disappeared again, was lost forever, or so I thought.
And then, that little Dickens won Survivor. She came back with FOURTEEN, mark it 14 babies.
She did it all herself. I don't know where she put those beautiful cerulean eggs, but she did it! Everyone left them alone.She was in charge. Go, Mrs. Dickens. They grew and grew and grew.
Mrs. Dickens is a hero. The Little Dickens flourished.
I am sorry to end the story with a bit of ghoulishness.
Our hen house could not support the addition of those fourteen.
They grew and grew, and eventually they fed a family that needed some food and nourishment.
Mrs. D. has gone on to lay more and more eggs. She's a good girl as is my beloved Betty, Carmen, Delilah, Edith, Francine, Georgianna, Hester, Iris and Jasmine. There was one of Mrs. D's children to escape the Grim Reaper. I am sorry to note that he is an absolute carbon copy of Charles. I regret to say that his days are numbered, his candle burns at both ends and that he will soon grace another simmering pot for a deserving family.
I would recommend chickens to anyone who is able to have them. They perk you up, they make you laugh, they bring joy to your world as you watch the spraddled walk and run they do. It's all good, though I do not wish you a Charles. Oh, and of course, there are the yummy eggs.
Best to all, e.
