How The Old Man Got Chickens

I used to have a few chickens before the old man and I got together.  I liked having chickens.  They were amusing to watch and the fresh eggs were nice.  The old man spent a lot of time on a farm when he was growing and experienced a rather expansive chicken coop.  He thinks chickens are the nastiest creature on a farm.  The look on his face (noted in photo) as he is telling me about the disgusting nature of chickens is hysterical.  Eggs are ok though, as long as he can pick them up in a carton.

Here he is again.

Ken, the old man, was so vehement about the disgusting nature of chickens that I had to resign myself to never having them again.

Every Tuesday we watch our four year old grandson Dominick.  We pick him up after lunch from pre-school.  Once he was out in the play yard watching the schools chickens.  I told him it was time to go and he told me that he wanted some chickens to keep at my house.  Knowing how the old man feels about chickens I told the boy he would have to talk to Ken Smith.  I know most kids call their grandpas grandpa but the boy has always called him "Ken Smith".  The first time we heard him say Ken Smith was when we were sitting outside enjoying the evening.  The old man tried to do a one cheek sneak but he farted loud and clear.  The boy chuckled and said "poochi Ken Smith" and it's Ken Smith ever since.

We left the school and headed to Starbuck's, Dominick loves the chocolate soy mild from them and it has become a necessary stop for us.  The chickens seemed to be forgotten as we continued home.  However, when we went out back he proceeded to tell me where he wanted his chicken house.  I told him he would have to talk to Ken Smith about it so the boy trotted off to the garage to see the old man.

I figured he would come out all upset but no, he was happy and told me that Ken Smith was going to build him a chicken house.  I couldn't believe it so I went into the garage and asked, "Are you building a chicken house for the boy?"  He told me he could not say no to him.  Well, at least I know what to do when I want something.  Send in the boy.

It was my job to get some girl chickens so off to the feed store I went.  I asked how to tell if they were girls or boys and the clerk some young bimbo in a mini skirt with pink hair raised her shoulders and said, "I dunno".  Well, that wasn't too helpful of course, she really did not look like a farmer but still she is working in a feed store.  So I went home and got on Youtube.  You can learn how to do anything on Youtube.  Sure enough there was a video on how to sex chickens.

Back to the feed store I went with complete confidence.  I started picking up fuzzy little chicks.  They will run from you so you have got to be quick.  You would think that checking between their legs would give a clue but no, they all look the same there.  You stretch out their little wings gently.   If the tiny pin feathers are all one length then it's a boy and if they are two lengths it is a girl.  Why didn't the pink bimbo know this?  It was so easy.

When the boy came over Easter morning I sent him into my office to see what the Easter bunny brought him.  Oh my!  How he loved those little things!  Every day he wanted to sit in the office holding his babies and feeding them.  He was quick to name them,  "Farm, Look, Dane, and the black on is called Fart".

After they got their feathers it was time to move them outside.
The boy loaded them up in the dog carrier and I carried them out to the new coop.

Every time the boy came over the first thing he would do is go out to the chicken pen and catch a chicken, Climb up to the roof of their house and sit with one in his lap.

One day, while I was outside I heard hollering from the chicken coop.  The boy was jumping around on one foot screaming for me to come pick him up.  I thought maybe he stepped on something sharp so I ran as well as a fat old lady can run out to the coop.  dominick was nearly hysterical begging me to pick him up.  He finally told me the problem.  He stepped in chicken poop.  I tried to put him back down telling him to just rub his foot in the dirt but the boy clung to me like a monkey.  There was no way he was going to go for anything but getting his foot washed off with water.

Several days later Ken told me that Dominick seems to have lost interest in the chickens.  I asked why and he told me that Dominick did not want to feed them anymore.  I told him the poop story because I figured that to be the problem.  When it came time to feed the chickens Ken asked the boy if he wanted to feed them and Dominick told him, "No, you can feed them."  When the old man pressed him the boy told him he did not want to step in chicken poop.

Well, since I work outside the home, someone has to take care of the chickens.  Those girls love that old man they follow him all over clucking after him.

I must add that since I wrote this two of the "girls" have started crowing.