My menthol-cigarette-smokin’-vietnam-vet-bulldog-owning-gossipy- but-well-meaning-chatterbox-of-a-neighbor is worried I am going to end up with a bunch of dyke chickens if I don’t get a rooster, and fast. According to him, that is the sole reason I don’t have eggs from my nearly seven month old hens who are currently causing me more strife than seems to be worth any amount of fabled eggs that the future holds. Of course when he told Riley that my chickens were soon to have butch-lesbian tendencies and that the certain cure-all was some hardcore chicken testosterone, Riley rightly asked him if he really wanted a rooster waking him up at four in the morning. That seemed to end the stream of consciousness male chicken fix all advise that is not uncommon from the east side of my all too short and none too private chain link fence.
None-the-less, I have yet to figure out a solid solution for chicken quarentine that is badly needed should my neighborly advise turn into griping and complaining as he quickly discovers that my hens have taken a fancy to his clothes-line pole over the already too close fence line. In any case they definitely have NOT laid any eggs yet and my daily threat to eat one of them (Cracker being the most plump – are we surpised at all by this?) have failed to hold any water – perhaps they know just how long and laborious it is to pluck a dead chicken without the convenience of more advanced technology than my fingers. So my porch continues to be graced by chicken shit, my unprotected plants assaulted by soon-to-be dyke chicken beaks, and the beautiful chicken house and shelter that I built neglected like an unwanted rooster amongst five very content hens. Meanwhile the dipper gourd has gone crazy and the mission grape has recovered after too many close encounters with my feathered livestock. The various trees I have planted in the last year are suddenly exploding with the fresh dousing of rain water day after day, making me truly believe in all that I have sown into this flood plain ground of a backyard. And my chickens are in danger of falling in love with each other. I can think of nothing better for my once-desolate-now-blooming-and- fertile-backyard. I hope such opportunity flourishes near you.