You Don’t Know What You

Strange turn of events: two chickens have joined our flock, and by flock, I mean pride of pussycats. These chickens came from a previous address, where a benefactor had decided they were meat, but residents named the chickens, making them pets. It’s a sentimental distinction. You could have a pig, name it Precious Loveydovey and still look forward to delicious smoky bacon. Many people do. These chickens came here last Sunday and already Pete’s collected four eggs; when he has eight, we will bake a celebratory souffle. I’m thinking it’ll be broccoli.

Our eyes met across an empty coop.

Our eyes met across an empty coop.

The arrival of the egg-laying chickens has caused us to reevaluate the chore chart at the Handmade House. The hens eat dandelion greens, other weeds and bugs and produce eggs. I have asked the cats what they contribute to the household. I can’t be 100% certain, but I believe they’re secretly updating their resumes.

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