Momma wanted some eggs...

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Momma called me and said she wanted some eggs. When Momma calls me for eggs, she isn't talking about those watery, pale store-bought eggs that come from chicken-bots. No, Momma wanted some my eggs. Or rather, she wanted eggs from my girls.

I told her the eggs were fertile. This a southern way of telling Momma she can't have the eggs. She took the southern way of ignoring the hint and said to bring them in the next time I came to town. I said I would, which is a southern way of stalling until I think of something.

The girls had built a common nest three feet across. They were piling a dozen eggs a day in there. I took out a dozen for Momma. Then I took two dozen to put in the Chicken Machine. I couldn't help myself.

One of the hens caught me robbing the nest. She screeched loud and long, and about two minutes later all the other hens were in the barn with me. They just stood there and stared, beaks agape. They blocked my way out of the barn. They pecked at my feet. One of them climbed up into the hay stack and tried to hammer me from above. It was an unpleasant scene, but I made it out with Momma's eggs and the ones I wanted to hatch in the house.

We hatched out twenty little baby chickens. All of them are a dark muckle color but one. One little golden baby shines like a little light in a sea of mud. He has a lovely disposition, very calm and friendly. The kids have named him Robert II.

In the meantime, Momma ran out of eggs. I went out there to steal some more, and this time a battalion of unhappy mother-hen types effectively kept me out. The most brutal fighter among them is guarding the nest night and day. The others have taken to hiding their eggs. It's getting harder and harder to find enough to keep Momma happy. It's getting harder and harder to walk anywhere near the barn without getting screamed at and abused by hens.

I just can't win. Well, except for having another little Robert around the house. He makes it worthwhile.

-- helen (trouble@in.the.henhouse), April 26, 2002

Answers

Helen, I don't want to minimize your problems, but aren't you better off with a henhouse full of chickens, clucking defiance, than with a henhouse full of lawyers?

-- Peter Errington (petere7@starpower.net), April 27, 2002.

Trouble?

Which is worse?

One henhouse full of many mad chicks?

Or one mad mother with no eggs?

----

Robert?

Robert???????

I've got a chicken named after me?

-- R. A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (racookpe@earthlink.net), April 28, 2002.


Helen, Helen... Didn't you learn from your last experience with the hatcher??

Sounds like your Robert is a keeper - at least for now. My mom used to tell me when I begged for a kitten that the problem with kittens is that they grow to be cats. Well, the problem with chicks is that they grow to be chickens. Is it easy to sex chicks? I don't think you need even more mad hens than you've already got! :-)

-- Tricia the Cnauck (jayles@telusplanet.net), April 28, 2002.


This morning I went into the barn singing as usual. I sing so everyone knows it's me coming in there in the dark before dawn. I sing so they won't hurt me in the dark.

Took two steps into the darkness. Somehow knew that mean old hen wasn't on her nest. Stopped dead. The first thing you do around here when something isn't right, is stop.

There were no eggs. No eggshells. No chicks. No momma hen. That meant only one thing. I slowly looked up.

There he was, the Ancient One, the old snake, the egg-sucking serpent ... and he was smiling. All snakes smile all the time -- that's why you shouldn't trust them -- but this old snake smirked.

The hen is traumatized, but alive.

-- helen (eggs@inna.wrong.tummy), May 01, 2002.


Aaack!

-- R. A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (racookpe@earthlink.net), May 02, 2002.


Poor Helen. At least RobertII is safe inside... right!?

I think we're suffering the invasion of the "out of school now" types. This time until mid-August, I'd guess. *Sigh*

-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), May 04, 2002.


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