Morning at the chicken pen

The sun is coming up, across the bean field to the east. I walk down the driveway, Ike on leash, and head down the road to the west end of the pasture.


"Good morning, Fred." "Good morning, Fred." All of the broiler chickens but 1 are named Fred.


Number 6 (which is actually her age when we bought her, not her number) and a calf. I'm not sure which calf this is, or even whether he belongs to Number 6 or not.

I unhook the poultry netting from the electric, and Ike and I get to work. He walks the perimiter of the chickens' range area, sniffing for trouble and marking his territory. I fill feeders and waters.

And then this peaceful scene dissolves with the appearance of this guy:


Wouldn't you be intimidated if all that was standing between you and him was 42" of unelectrified string? Or am I being wimpy?



I hold my breath and hope he doesn't get a whiff of chicken feed and decide that's what he wants for breakfast.

This is the scene when I leave and head for home. Chickens eating breakfast, grazing cows (and a grazing horse butt), and a dog who still looks at me in disbelief. If he could talk he'd be saying, "Are you serious?!? You're making me chickensit again today?!?"




2 years ago:

Random gardening advice

1 year ago:

If cuteness could kill