I am sitting here, on my family’s leather couch, leaning over my lit computer screen biting my fingernails. Or what used to be my fingernails. In nine days I will be boarding a plane and flying to London, then Scotland, for almost three weeks. I am ecstatic that I get to go on this awesome vacation, an adventure that I am not likely to ever forget. I am so incredibly luck to get the opportunity to visit my aunt and uncle living over there, and cannot put my excitement into coherent words. AHhhhhhhhdhahahahahhagaaaaaaaaah!! That’s all that comes out, honestly.
But what I am worried about, surprise, surprise, is the chickens. It always comes back to them, doesn’t it?
The fact that I will be entrusting their care to someone else for three weeks terrifies me. My father is a very capable and responsible person, but he doesn’t know what sour crop is, or how to look for bumble foot, or what kind of worms cause diarrhea. He doesn’t know how to do the special call that brings them home every time they escape. Everything could go wrong.
You see, this attitude is why it’s a good thing I am leaving them for three weeks. Its borderline obsessive.
I just finished typing a six page guide to their care taking, even though I could tell him in six sentences. Six words, probably.
- Feed them
- Water them
- Clean their poop from the coop and run
- Make sure they aren’t eaten
- Make sure they aren’t acting weird
- If they’re acting weird call the vet
There you go. Six easy steps. I should probably just give him that list instead of the novel-in-progress I am creating in the next tab.
I must teach myself to set aside my fears and enjoy myself. I will. not. let. those little feathered creatures ruin my vacation.
Everything will be fine.
If I say that enough times, hopefully I will believe it.