Unless you have tried “chickening” in the rain and mud, you just have not lived. I realize this is not the proper use of chickening. The urban dictionary, (see you can find any word somewhere if you just google), defines chickening as the act of throwing pieces of fried chicken at passers-by, houses, windows or cars. If you have seen me or know me, you know I have not been up this morning frying chicken and throwing it at any houses, windows or cars. The folks who throw fried chicken have obviously not tasted my fried chicken.
My chickening involves me going to the chicken yard to open coops, check on chickens, make sure feeders are out of the wet and that everyone has water. Maybe I should say clean water since there is water standing on every surface and the dirtier the drinking water the better they seem to like it. If someone out there knows how to keep chickens from drinking the dirty water, please share that secret with the rest of us.
I actually buried up in the mud and got my sloggers stuck. When my foot pulled halfway out of my boot, I knew I would be the one laundering those socks so I held to the fence and got my foot back in that slogger quickly. And I didn’t fall, not once. I fell in the chicken yard on Saturday, Sunday and Monday. Monday being the worst. I cracked the lens in my glasses and my nose does not look very good, yet. I heal fast. Thank Goodness! Have I said I hate mud in the chicken yard?
Today is weather for ducks and that is obvious by the fact all five of them are in the backyard, just living it up in the water standing. Standing because the ground is frozen and the inches not frozen are now saturated and can’t hold any more water.
For once the adventures in the outside chicken yard couldn’t compare to the adventures in the garage with 4 groups of chicks and young chickens. One group includes 5 half grown chicks that need to go to the outside chicken yard but I just can’t introduce them to this muddy mess. They have never had dirty feet. However, now that they have decided to get out of their puppy playpen and roost around in the garage, knocking off things on top of the sick bay, they may have muddy feet before nightfall. The four sick ones seemed to have survived being covered by a hanging pot and a top to a rubbermaid tote, having their water knocked down, and having a visitor from the playpen among them. The two groups of young chicks were happy, hungry babies as usual except for one dead body. I thought I had the only surviving Polish baby at my house but she succumbed during the night. Sometimes, there is just no rhyme or reason to chicks dying. After I finish my coffee, I am going back down to the garage and check on everyone again. Ideally they will all be where they are supposed to be. Ha!