For a year now, ever since it became legal to raise chickens in this neck of the woods, people have asked me if I was going to get me some. And for a year, I've said probably not. Amy asked me just a couple of weeks ago, and I raised my usual concerns: What do we do with the chickens when we go out of town, and how do we keep predators out of the yard? Our wooded suburban neighborhood has copperheads, our own fox family, and, oddly enough, coyotes. I'm sure there are a few raccoons galavanting around out there as well.
But I've been emailing with my neighbor Anthony, who's had a coop since last year, and he says he's only lost one chicken, to a hawk. I'm going to go visit his chickens this weekend if the weather's good, and then I'm going to think about chickens. A lot. Real hard.
I mentioned this to the Man tonight, and he did this thing he does when I bring up an idea he doesn't think is so hot, which is to smile and look interested while signaling total lack of enthusiasm with every friendly nod of his head.
So I did the thing I do when he does his thing, which is to sound oh-so nonchalant, like, "Well, I'm not even sure if this is something I want to do, and certainly not right at this very minute. In fact, I'm completely losing interest as we speak."
Then, despite his initial lack of enthusiasm, the Man will start thinking about chickens and get kind of excited. And in spite of my initial excitement, I'll start thinking about chickens and wonder if it's such a good idea.
Who knows where we'll end up. A new goldfish, maybe.
I have to say that I am excited about visiting Anthony's coop. It's good to know a neighbor who has chickens. You never know when he'll need to get rid of some extra eggs ...
Just a little more Travis. Here he is yesterday, his grubby old self:
And here he is after his grooming today, King of the Prom:
I'm a writer and a stay-at-home mom who keeps meaning to mop the floors because I think it would make me happy if I did. I love books and music and writing, spend entirely too much time in the dentist's chair (I bet I have more crowns than you do), and used to think I was sort of bohemian, but now I wonder. No tattoos. Minivan. That story.