The
other day I was thinking, “Gee, I’ve got to write something for the
Suburban Farm,” ‘cause I’ve made it a loose goal to try to write more
often rather than devote my time to more pressing tasks like the
laundry, running my business, taking care of my boys. I’ve categorized
this as a Me Time thing, thus making it totally OK to neglect the dirty urchins who are running about the yard unshod and decidedly unbathed.
“No Zane, Mommy can’t help you down from that tree she’s having Me Time.”
Anyway, I couldn’t think of anything to write. Things were dull, dull, dull. There are tomatoes that are dying because it’s Thursday and that’s what they do. There are even more failed garden experiments like the worm chewed cabbages that really need to be pitched into the compost pile. But none of this is any fun. Then there’s that old adage about being careful and wishes and stuff.
Friday morning I spotted a dead chicken in the coop from the bedroom window. Then I spotted another. Because dead animals are his department, I sent Ryan out to investigate.
At some point in the night a dog broke into the pen and tore every chicken it could get its mouth on apart. There were only three live chickens left.
Ryan collected all the chicken parts and reinforced the fence in Ft. Chicken (which is way less secure then we thought it was) and I took photos of the aftermath in the pen. “No Zane, Mommy can’t feed you breakfast right now, she’s got to take photos of where the chickens died.”
Later in the day I spotted the poor beast. This dog hasn’t eaten anything other than those chickens in a very long while. I hope that she’s actually a stray and not someone’s pet that got loose. She bolted the second she saw me, which I guess is better than the alternative, but now Zane is stuck urchining on the screened in back porch till we know she’s caught.
I’ve called animal control, but they’re not open on weekends. In the meantime, I'm leaving rice cooked in chicken stock out in the back yard. I hope she’s the one eating it and not the crazy one-eared opossum, the giant raccoon posse who occasionally haunt our back porch and eat cigarette butts and cat food, or the T-Rex sized deer who likes the salad buffet we grow for it. I want her to get used to coming to our house for food so we can trap her and take her to the shelter where she can get cared for and fed.
And no, I've no plans on taking in any more strays this month. I'm already dealing with Crazy Charlie on top of our five cats.
“No Zane, Mommy can’t help you down from that tree she’s having Me Time.”
Anyway, I couldn’t think of anything to write. Things were dull, dull, dull. There are tomatoes that are dying because it’s Thursday and that’s what they do. There are even more failed garden experiments like the worm chewed cabbages that really need to be pitched into the compost pile. But none of this is any fun. Then there’s that old adage about being careful and wishes and stuff.
Friday morning I spotted a dead chicken in the coop from the bedroom window. Then I spotted another. Because dead animals are his department, I sent Ryan out to investigate.
At some point in the night a dog broke into the pen and tore every chicken it could get its mouth on apart. There were only three live chickens left.
 |
| All that remains. |
Ryan collected all the chicken parts and reinforced the fence in Ft. Chicken (which is way less secure then we thought it was) and I took photos of the aftermath in the pen. “No Zane, Mommy can’t feed you breakfast right now, she’s got to take photos of where the chickens died.”
Later in the day I spotted the poor beast. This dog hasn’t eaten anything other than those chickens in a very long while. I hope that she’s actually a stray and not someone’s pet that got loose. She bolted the second she saw me, which I guess is better than the alternative, but now Zane is stuck urchining on the screened in back porch till we know she’s caught.
I’ve called animal control, but they’re not open on weekends. In the meantime, I'm leaving rice cooked in chicken stock out in the back yard. I hope she’s the one eating it and not the crazy one-eared opossum, the giant raccoon posse who occasionally haunt our back porch and eat cigarette butts and cat food, or the T-Rex sized deer who likes the salad buffet we grow for it. I want her to get used to coming to our house for food so we can trap her and take her to the shelter where she can get cared for and fed.
And no, I've no plans on taking in any more strays this month. I'm already dealing with Crazy Charlie on top of our five cats.
 |
| I'm Charlie, I'm CRAZY! |