I'm gonna get you sucka

After reading Kris' Target post and the Daring One's comment on our redneck post, I thought it might be fun to tell you a little about what makes us weird in our neighborhood.

We live in a quiet neighborhood. The lawns are nicely kept, the parents let their kids ride their bikes down to the end of the cul de sac, most everyone has owned their home for at least 5 years and you can order pizza to be delivered to your home. (That's how you know when you've moved too far out of town: Dominoes *doesn't* deliver.) Anyhow. We live *in* town, and like the other houses on our street, we have a one acre lot. But we have something (besides 6 kids) that the other neighbors don't have: Chickens. Yup. Right in the middle of my city street is our herd of chickens and the two ducks we inherited from teenagers who thought they'd be "cute". And I hold my head high, even though I know that all the crowing coming from my backyard has the tounges in the neigborhood wagging like the tail on an old hound dog. *Sigh* Yes, we are the laughing stock of the neighborhood.

We only have the chickens because my husband is a softie who forgets that cute small things grow into not so cute full size things. So when my kids walk into the local tractor supply and hear that cheep-cheeping, they know that if they look real cute and ask really nicely, Dad will buckle and they'll get to bring home some fluffy, down covered chicks. The first time it happened, my husband's hunting dog "played" with them one Sunday afternoon while we were at church and I was pretty sure the carnage was going to free me from chicken chores forever more. But the very next year, despite my threats to my husband that pens must be built before chickens are purchased, "OR ELSE", the little brown-eyed wonders did it again, convinced him to put the cart before the horse and brought home 7 little balls of fluff. This time, there were no hunting dogs to thin the herd. So when the beloved balls of fluff turned into crowing, feathered, egg laying members of the family, I knew we were in trouble.

It all started annoyingly enough. The hens start laying eggs, (everywhere, since we don't have a pen...Grrrrr) and the kids cry claiming "we can't possibly eat that! It's a potential baby chicken!" Then the roosters started taking every opportunity to chase the children. Finally, that game got old and we were able to convince them that all the mean, rooster chickens are best enjoyed cooked up in momma's pot. All but one:



Isn't he cute? He looks like he has pants on. He's covered in soft, silken, down and for the longest time, he would even allow the kids to pick him up and carry him around. Unfortunatley, since the demise of the larger, stronger roosters, he's now gotten a little too big for those downy, feather britches of his and protects his little harem with all the once repressed machoism he posesses.

Yesterday, I went out to check on the peach tree in the yard (which is COVERED in peaches, BTW) and for some reason, the little buggar decided that was *his* peach tree, thank-you-very-much, and he.attacked.me. Humph. Well, I've nurtured you, fed you, kept you alive this long little fellow. I've kept you in the world and I can take you OUT. I just can't do it with a large silver feed bowl. Or a rock. Or a stick. My aim deteriorates the angrier I get. So for now, I will carry my broomstick with my head held high, and I will be "Mommy, defender of the little people and protector of bare legs" And if the new gate I build this weekend won't keep you in the coop, you better watch your back, because it really is amazing how tender even the oldest rooster gets when cooked in a pressure cooker for 4 hours, and I'm not above telling the brown-eyed wonders you "must've ran away! Now dear, eat your chicken soup."

Cause I'm just mean like that.