Quick Update

The weather has a rare warmth to it this morning. For the past few weeks I have walked outside to the earth blanketed with heavy frost, hauling buckets of hot water out to my chickens at 6:30 in the morning. But today, it is almost humid, and bright from the tropical like rain yesterday. I just got back from a four-day school field trip to Washington DC, and although it was fun to explore the monuments and historical sites with my friends, I am incredibly glad to be back in my quiet home. One can only spend so much time with a group of teenage girls and keep their sanity…

On the topic of chickens: Mary is in the finishing stages of her first molt. Her back is now covered in soft, shiny feathers, but her body is still lopsided from losing half of her tail feathers. Her foot feathers are a gorgeous cream colour- she is certainly a beauty! Cora and Mabel still have that patch of skin on their backs… I see the feather shafts beginning to poke out, and downy feathers are making their way down the painful looking skin. They have just started molting since I returned a few days ago- I opened the coop door to see a flurry of gray and red feathers drifting to the ground.

Around three weeks ago, I opened the coop door to see a dropping, and as I looked closer I saw something so incredibly disgusting I will refrain from describing it: worms. I immediately bought a bottle of Wazine dewormer from the tractor supply and gave them a dose. I’m hoping that did the trick! Let’s just say I won’t be eating spaghetti any time soon…

A little about worms…

From my research, I was able to identify the parasite I saw as roundworm. They are typically long, spaghetti like worms in the bird’s intestines. Symptoms include: diarrhea, weight loss, lethargy, and actual worm sightings. Cora has always had loose droppings that absolutely ruin her butt fluff, but I never suspected that it could be the product of a slight worm infestation. And I have noticed that they were looking a bit skinnier, but I attributed it to molting stress. But now that I think about it, it makes a lot of sense that they have it. From my understanding: although chickens will always live with a small amount of worms in their system, it is best to deworm them with Wazine or another medication if it gets to the point where they have symptoms.

My treatment plan:

  • Deworm with Wazine dosage twice, with a 30 day interval (requires egg withdrawal)
  • Supplement this with free choice pumpkin (sugar pumpkins cut in half) and a few garlic cloves in their waterer just in case the natural chicken keepers are on to something
  • Spread straw or leaves down onto their dirt run to make droppings less accessible
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Where we are now

It is interesting to think on how we came to be where we are now.

Two years ago, around this time, one of my friends attempted to take her life. Suddenly everything got too real. I was horrified, guilty- how could I have not realized what she was going through? What kind of friend does not realize such a thing. And perhaps the most haunting question of all: what if she had succeeded?

I brought it up at a doctors appointment and suddenly found myself crying, releasing all of the built up emotion in that tiny room, my legs hanging over the side of the gurney. They gave me a list of therapists to try. I have always had anxiety and depression, especially during the cold months, when I am trapped by the frigid darkness of winter. Thus, this suggestion was welcome by me.

So when I sat on that couch across from a stranger, clutching a box of tissues while watching her scrawl on her clipboard, the relief I felt upon blurting out all of my troubles was immediate. If you have ever tried acupuncture, or yoga, it was that type of sensation. When I walked out, I was able to stand a little taller, smile a little fuller. I would tell her my dreams of farming, how I was so frustrated that I couldn’t live this dream in my head, and one day she tilted her head and queried:

What about raising chickens?

My skeptical reaction quickly transformed into cautious excitement. She mentioned it to my mother, who was obliging out of politeness, but quickly assured me that no more animals would be joining our household. I nodded, and when we arrived home I ran to my room, pulled out my farming books, and began my research. A few months later I was ready. I had read two or three reference books, countless articles, blog posts, forums. I had compiled this into one presentation explaining every aspect of my plan- from what to tell the neighbors, to the cost of feed, to a full list of poultry veterinarians within thirty miles. Every night I would ask my parents for a half hour of their time, and every night they gave me an excuse. I was indescribably frustrated but persevered and eventually caught them sitting on the couch and planted myself beside them, my presentation at the ready.

I went through the slides slowly, answering any questions they had with confidence. By the end of it they seemed bewildered that they were actually starting to consider the idea. When I reached the last slide, I gave my closing statement and scurried up the stairs, straining to here what they were saying from my bedroom.

It took a week. I had just finished brushing my teeth, walked into the TV room to say goodnight to them, and my mother looked at me and said

“Dad ordered your heat lamp”

“My what??” I asked, not believing my ears, and then in a joyful, life changing moment I hugged them both and began babbling excitedly about how they wouldn’t regret it and thank you so much. My mother reiterated her displeasure at the idea, but grudgingly said that her and dad had agreed to buy a few chicks for me.

A month later I was holding them in the palms of my hands, the start of a glorious journey that began with what could have been an awful tragedy.

Here I sit, raising chickens and blogging for one and a half years. My friend: back to health and enjoying life. Just yesterday I drove on the road for the first time. It’s amazing, where we are now.

Part 4: I Will Return

I should really wrap up my Scotland posts, shouldn’t I? After all, this is a blog about chickens, and I miss writing about ’em! This will be the last post involving my travels.

We attended the Highland Games the next Saturday- A big, green field with an amusement park on one side and a large arena with the actual events on the other. There were large men in kilts throwing hammers, scrawny farmers carrying 300 kg worth of stones, beautiful sounding pipe bands, young women hopping from foot to foot in the Highland Dancing competition, and lots and lots of food (including  a very special creation: “haggis on a stick”).

The next day we left for Puffin Rock. After parking our car on the side of the road, we took a thirty minute hike through sheep pastures and a gorge (where we found an adder, eek!). We reached a cliff, at which point my aunt said,

“Okay, let’s go down.” And I looked at her blankly and pointed to the vertical grassy slope that ended in a fifty foot drop into the Atlantic and said

“Um, what?” Her friends (all pretty much in their fifties) were already climbing down the slippery grass as if there wasn’t a possibility that you could accidentally step on a loose rock and go tumbling to your doom. I looked down at my flat-footed rain boots, thought about my great hiking boots she had told me to leave in the car, and then looked at her friends, already perched at the bottom of the cliff. Dammit I muttered as I started downward, my knees already shaking.

I’m not great with high risk situations.

scotland cliff

See, in this photo I am attempting to get back onto solid ground. My body is vertical, and the only place I can hold onto to support my weight is wet grass. Below my giant rain boots is rocks and ocean and death. Pretty darn scary.

Okay, so I’ve made my point. But the peril was worth it, because when I got down there I had a direct view of hundreds of puffins and puffin burroughs. It was simply amazing to see the little guys soaring around, their bright orange beaks in stark contrast with the temperamental gray sky.

We then hiked through the marshy pasture back to the car, and drove West, to Tongue where I witnessed white sand beaches, clear waters, Highland “Coos” (cows), and dramatic mountain ranges. It was Scotland in a nutshell.

That Monday my aunt and I took a ferry to Orkney Islands for a day-long bus tour. We saw ancient stone hedges, Skara Brae- The remains of a 5,000 year old community, explored a cathedral, and visited the Italian Chapel.

The Italian Chapel was built by Italian POWs, when they were forced to build a defense mechanism for the British naval base located in a sheltered Orkney harbor. They took one of their housing facilities, and utilized bits and pieces of old buildings and sunken ships to create a masterpiece dedicated to their faith (even diving under water to retrieve bathroom tile for the flooring of the chapel). Using paints, they painted the plaster ceiling, walls, floor, and picture of Mary. One particular Italian, named Pulombi, created a stunning gate out of melted down nails and bits of metal. This man fell in love with a local girl, Barbara, despite his wife and children back home. When the war ended, he decided to go back to Italy and his wife, letting the Barbara know that she shared his heart with another woman. He left a small iron heart at the foot of the chapel, saying that “he left all of his heart here” for the girl. Pulombi never returned to her, but she visited the chapel every day. On one of these particular days, after the man had long since died, his daughter came to view his works. It was there that his daughter, named Barbara, discovered the existence of her namesake.

And that, my friends, was the last big event on my adventure.

The only thing that consoles me about not being in that lovely green country is the knowledge that I. will. return. Photo Jul 29, 3 06 45 AM

Part 3: My Life in Scotland

My first day in Thurso was a day of rest and recuperation. After sleeping in for the first time in months, my aunt and I walked into town with a trolley. We spent thirty minutes browsing in charity shops, made a quick run to the post office to retrieve a package, and shopped at the local grocery store. We finished off our outing by walking a short distance to the ocean. It was simply a cement side walk: on one side was a desolate looking parking lot, and on the other a gorgeous river spilling out into the Atlantic ocean. Lining the walls were rusty ladders that led down to small fishing boats floating in the current. We walked down to the boat ramp, and listened to the waves crash against the rocks, while looking on at the silhouette of Thurso castle in the partly cloudy sky. A tiny building with a cheap looking sign reading “Café” sat in the parking lot, catering to the surfing crowd that arrives every fall to try their hand in Thurso’s renowned large waves.

What struck me most about this town, was its sheer… ordinariness. These people do not ride horses to work, cannot travel back in time. They have real grocery stores, real jobs, real problems. I needed to see that, because a small, very childish part of me had this idea that across the ocean everything is different. My first reaction? Disappointment. But after strolling through the streets, talking with the kind locals, I began to realize that there is so much beauty in the ordinary places.

Photo Jul 18, 7 25 28 AM

“As I looked on at this unfamiliar place, I felt an inexplicable sense of belonging”

On Thursday, my second day in Scotland, my aunt brought me on a thirty minute drive to Castle Mey. Previously owned and visited by the late Queen Mother, Castle Mey is an adorable dwelling overlooking the ocean and presiding over vigilantly kept gardens. I was grateful for the opportunity to volunteer within the walled gardens, as my aunt does every week. The head gardener, Andrew, was kind enough to take me on a small tour through the blooming rose bushes, alliums, and a multitude of other flora. Nestled in the middle was a large vegetable patch, where produce is then used in the adjacent café for delicious soups, salads, and sandwiches.

After weeding, my aunt and I dined on a vegetable stew and cheese scone (topped with butter, of course), and then ventured onward toward the castle itself. Our tour was both amusing and interesting as we walked through the same walls that the Queen Mother had not too long ago. We then ventured down to the small livestock area, where cows, a donkey, goats, sheep, and chickens roamed. Seeing the gorgeous chickens gave me much needed comfort, as I missed my trio dreadfully.

The next day, Friday, I kept mostly to the house, curled up in the Conservatory reading a book on the War of the Roses and periodically snacking on tea and Jaffa cakes. When the rain let up, I ventured out into the back garden (yard=garden) and started walking down the sidewalk that accompanies a length of the river. The sun was still high in the sky even though it was around 7:30 pm (it doesn’t set until around 10:30 or 11pm that far North at this time of year) and I walked along the quiet pathway. I paused on the little foot bridge to take this photo- the clouds and blue sky shimmered in the quiet river waters giving me an immense sense of peace, and that curious sense of belonging. Photo Jul 17, 3 34 30 PM

Saturday marked the day where my aunt, uncle and I would finally see some of the sights in the Highlands. Our first stop was Duncansby Head, impressive cliffs where hundreds of sea birds dwell. Their songs echoed off of the stone, where water had gradually carved out sea stacks.

The waves would flow in between the rock, and swirl in a gorgeous shade of teal and foam. The driving rain and biting wind made everything seem so much more vibrant and full of life. Everywhere you looked in the rocks was a crevice sheltering a bird nest, whether a common sea gull or parrot-like puffin. The rolling ocean made me wonder what it might be like here in a few thousand years.

We located a small pub/bar attached to a hotel on the side of the road. It smelled a bit like a pool, and the restaurant snob in me started to question our choice in location when out came the most satisfying cup of coffee I’ve ever had. And then a few minutes later, the tastiest burger made from local Aengus beef and topped with home made cole slaw appeared in front of me. I immediately reevaluated my snobbery. After lunch we went to Dunnet Head, the northern most point on the mainland of Scotland.

On Monday my aunt and I ventured down to Dunrobin Castle, about forty five minutes of gorgeous coast and dramatic mountain tops. Dunrobin castle is an extremely large establishment dating all the way back to the early 14th century. It was the seat of the Earl of Sutherland, and used as a very lavish hunting lodge. The gardens are extensive, and overlook the ocean. Within the gardens is a still functioning falconry, where birds are taken in and rehabilitated. We were able to witness a falconry display, which was just incredible. The falcons, eagles, and owls all have the ability to leave if they wish- but they choose not to. In fact the owl that was shown takes a hunting trip by himself every morning, but always returns.

Tuesday we traveled through a mile or so of sheep pasture to get to a beach literally covered in shells (aptly named Shell Beach). We spent two hours hunting for “groatie buckies”, which is a type of small shell that supposedly brings good luck to its discoverers. The sign outside the beach warns newcomers though, that if you take too many you could bring upon yourself bad luck. I found about forty of the little pearly shells (the size of my pinky nail) but made sure to bury three or four to preserve my good fortunes. We then ate lunch at Castle Mey, and browsed through local craft market. For dinner, we went to a local restaurant: “Le Bistro” where I tried haggis! I would tell you what it is, but I’m still pretending it was hamburger.

Part 2: Welcome to Thurso

It was early morning when my alarm rang, signaling the start to a day full of travel. We got on a train in London that took us to Luton Airport, and then boarded a bus to the correct terminal. After checking in at the Easy Jet Airline desk and watching our luggage slowly edge away on the conveyor belt, we departed in search of breakfast. I dined on a latté and Pain Au Chocolat (or something…) before walking to the busy security check point. My heart was racing, as it always does when going through security, and it didn’t help matters when, as I stepped through the metal detector threshold, alarm bells started singing. They pointed to the side, and there I stood, my entire body visibly shaking until they found the time to do a body search. All I had on my person was a pair of leggings (without pockets), underclothes, and a shirt. There was literally no where that I could possibly conceal anything. Of course they had to choose me though.

I survived, and after an hour of waiting we climbed up the stairs to the plane and took our seats. It was about forty minutes of flying through white clouds until we landed in Inverness. I was struck by the large expanse of blue waters, the emerald green landscape, the mountains still capped with snow. As we grew closer to the ground

I saw the small city of Inverness, pastures with sheep and cows, patches of gorse and heather. The sun was out in Scotland. We climbed down the metal staircase onto the runway, grabbed our luggage from the first room we walked into, and stumbled out into the sun with feet weary from a day’s traveling. It was a long stroll through a large long-term parking lot but eventually we reached my uncle’s car. The two hour drive up to Thurso was beyond words. The landscape outside my window shifted from rolling hills to jagged mountains dotted with spongy heather and flocks of sheep. Every few minutes was a ruin of an old stone barn. The coastline revealed white sand beaches, dramatic cliffs, clear blue water. The sky changed about five times on that drive- from sunny, to partial clouds, to rain, to sun, to clouds again. We stopped for a late lunch at a small café overlooking the ocean. They were serving hot tea, hearty stew and warm cheese scones with butter. The atmosphere was so warm, the people welcoming. I just sat there and enjoyed the sound of lilting Scottish accents.

Thurso, the northernmost town on mainland Scotland, is within the county Caithness. It lies beside the River Thurso, right where its mouth meets the Atlantic Ocean. At its center are a few charity shops, a clothing store or two, a museum, hotel, and some lovely restaurants. The road leads right to the ocean, where a fishmonger thrives on the sale of fresh seafood, and a café serves delicious lunches. The summer temperature gets up to a blistering 60 degrees Fahrenheit, while the winter has been known to cause wind so severe that everyone is advised to stay at home. It’s a hearty place, with hearty food, and hearty people.

As I looked on at this unfamiliar place, I felt an inexplicable sense of belonging.

To be continued…

I’m back! Part One…

I returned back home to America on Thursday after two very long days of traveling. I thought I’d dedicate a few posts to my trip, to let you know what I did, etc…

July 9th My father and I woke up in a Boston hotel and took a shuttle to the airport. We walked around for a little bit, then I hopped on the plane. I was so nervous about flying- my hands would not stop trembling!

I spent six and a half hours reading, as the little TV wouldn’t work. Finally I arrived in Heathrow, the airport in London.Photo Jul 09, 2 31 08 PM A staff member of British Airways guided me through the building as we retrieved my luggage and went through immigration (where they interrogated me as if I had done something extremely illegal). I figured out that I really dislike airports… Especially the part where they ask you questions. My hands and voice shake violently and I probably look extremely shifty.

Eventually I found my aunt and uncle, patiently waiting for my arrival. We boarded the Heathrow Express train, and suddenly I was standing on the lamplit streets of London. This was rather shocking, as the only city I have ever seen is Boston. The Tube Strike was occurring as well, so everyone was milling about, attempting to find their way home. Each double-decker bus was full of impatient commuters and confused tourists, and we spent a long time just trying to find a bus with enough space to stand.

Once we got on one, my aunt sent me up the stairs, promising to follow after my uncle boarded. I obediently climbed the stairs of the fast moving vehicle and sat down right as I heard the shouting of two fighting men. One fellow pushed the other down the stairs- this guy then threw himself on the other, and a few attempted punches later they separated. Meanwhile I was trying to make myself as small as possible in the seat next to this commotion. My uncle appeared and brought me back down where we waited for forty minutes to get to the hotel.

It was around 9 or 10 when we sat down to eat at an Italian restaurant, and I was very grateful to lie down on my pull-out mattress in the hotel across the street.

July 10th We woke up and after grabbing some coffee and porridge, took the Tube down to Trafalgar Square. It was gorgeous out- hot and sunny! We wandered down the street and found ourselves in St. James’s Park, strolling through the quiet gardens (a relief after the busy traffic filled streets).

When we emerged from the park we decided to check out Buckingham Palace, and noticed a large crowd gathering outside its gates. The red cloth was showing underneath the balcony, which means that something is going to happen. Impulsively we found ourselves searching for a good view point, and settled down on the sidewalk to wait. Thirty minutes later a marching band arrived and disappeared behind the fence and shrubbery. Ten minutes later, mounted policemen and women appeared, and shooed away the people in the middle of the road.

Twenty minutes later the doors swung open and I held my breath as the Queen herself stepped out into the daylight. Out followed other members of the royal family, waving to us commoners… They looked to the sky as Spitfires soared past, in memory of the Battle of Britain. After a time they disappeared behind the curtain doors, and I was left in complete awe of what had just happened. I mean… I saw the Queen!

After this spectacle we joined a bus tour and rode to the Tower of London, where we ate lunch and took a ferry ride down the Thames (river) and disembarked by the Parliament buildings and Big Ben. We then got back on the bus tour and rode up to Trafalgar square again, and poked around the National Gallery before grabbing some dinner at Pizza Express.

July 11th We woke up a bit later due to my annoying jet lag, and made our way back to the Tower of London. We spent all morning and afternoon taking a Beefeater tour (a fascinating and entertaining tour led by a retired member of the Royal Army) and looking at the museum, which was full of interesting stories, armor, and weaponry. This experience was one of my favorites in London- especially since I am an avid historical fiction reader, and many scenes from my books took place within these very walls!

We took another bus tour down to the Parliament buildings, and also visited Covent Garden (sort of like the British version of Fanuell Hall in Boston). It is a street lined with a multitude of shops, restaurants, and buskers who entertain everyone with music and performances.

July 12th We began the day by taking the Tube down to Westminster Cathedral, a truly magnificent building that is still being completed. There were several side chapels, each with splendid golden mosaic patterns. Sound reverberated throughout the building, and the delicate smell of incense wafted down the aisles. Marble columns and arched windows led the way to the altar. It was a very peaceful start to a busy day.

Another Tube ride took us to the V&A (Victoria and Albert Museum) which is a museum filled with just about everything you can think of. A beautiful fashion exhibit, bits and pieces of old buildings, sculptures, epitaphs, jewelry, theatre, and in the center of it all, a lovely tea room.

We poked around the National History Museum- a little less enjoyable thanks to the hundreds of children running around- but still fascinating.

We then took another ride on the subway and a very long walk to the Globe Theatre, a replica of the theatre from  William Shakespeare’s time. As we made our way across the Millennium footbridge the sun hid behind the clouds and it began to drizzle. We found ourselves some dinner and took a short walk across the street to the Globe. Our seats were on the very top and directly overlooked the gilded stage below. The thatched roof just barely sheltered us from the damp precipitation. The actors took their places on the soaking wet stage, and the two hour showing of Richard II began with a flourish. It was amazing. The actors and actresses were the best I’ve ever seen, the music was wonderful, and I was thoroughly engrossed in the events happening below me. This was by far my favorite part of London!

July 13th We spent our last day in London within the British Museum, thoroughly exploring its multiple rooms and exhibits. We began with the Rosetta Stone, then worked our way through Assyrian carvings, Roman and Greek sculptures, essentially taking a walk through history. It was very cool, though I think I preferred the Victoria and Albert Museum.

I was browsing through a gallery full of old books and tomes when I noticed someone standing really close to me. I saw in the corner of my eye that it was a young man holding up his phone on front-facing camera, shooting a video of me. I was extremely confused and started to panic a bit so I tried to step away from him but he got in front of me again and started aggressively telling me to “say hello!” in some sort of accent (not American or British). Now that I think on it- he was probably just messing with me- but at the time I had a whole mental panic attack. My thoughts literally consisted of: OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD MUST GET OUT MUST GET OUT MUST GET OUT. It’s nice to know I can rely on keeping my cool in tough situations….

Anyways, he wouldn’t leave me alone so I finally said “hello?” and he chuckled and exited the room. Of course this happens to me- a socially awkward, timid, shy teenager from America. Needless to say, I was glad to get up to Scotland after this…

Check back for Part Two of my adventure!

Edith

Two days ago my sister and I went for a run. It was directly after a rain storm, so everything was saturated in color. We ran along the wide river that traces the bottom of the valley we call home. The sun was casting a gorgeous reflection on the water, and the air was cool after the downpour. It was just perfect.

After I got home I walked over to the chicken run to let them out (I had locked them up in anticipation of strong winds and lightning). I swung open the door, as usual, and began walking towards the house when Edith ran towards me. He has acted aggressive before, so this wasn’t all that unusual, but this time he didn’t stop. He flew up at me with his claws outstretched so I brought up my sneaker to deflect him. He pecked me through the fabric of the sneaker, landed, and flew up at me again, this time pecking my shin. He repeated this several times.

Eventually I ran away, already covered in bruises, scratches, and peck marks. I can’t describe how traumatizing, how upsetting, it is to have an animal you raised attack you. I felt like I had screwed up some how. What happened to him? A month ago he was sleeping on my lap while I pet his feathers. Now he is attacking me like I am a dangerous predator. He won’t even go near me anymore.

I guess it’s just the rooster hormones coursing through him.

Anyways, what I wanted to tell you is that night I put an ad for him on CraigsList. This morning a guy named Brian called my father in response. Apparently he has a farm with fifteen hens, and wants a rooster to fertilize the eggs so they can hatch out chicks. I should be overjoyed. I know my parents are. But I just feel gross and sleazy, like I have given up on an animal that (up until this month) has shown me nothing but respect.

I keep thinking about all the time we’ve had together. In the winter, when his comb was frozen and he was shaking in pain, how I just held him in my arms and he calmed down. How I fed him food by hand when he was weak, and coaxed him to drink warm water. How I nursed him back to health again. The person I’m giving him to won’t spend that kind of time trying to help him. He has the heart of a farmer, something I wish I had, but sadly lack.

But then I walk outside and see the small pen we have him in, I see my hen’s featherless and raw backs from the over-mating. He needs more space, more hens.

I’m sure most of you don’t really “get” my sadness over this silly bird, a chicken no less. I know I sound overly dramatic, but it is really hard for an animal lover like me to do something like this. To entrust one of my pets to someone that I know will not take care of him in the same way I do.

Ugh, I hate this part of chicken-keeping.

Oh Edith, I’ll miss your crowing.

 Photo Jun 07, 7 47 44 PM Photo May 01, 2 15 21 PM Photo May 29, 8 05 45 PM

Training Myself To Not Worry About Feathered Creatures

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.

  1. Feed them
  2. Water them
  3. Clean their poop from the coop and run
  4. Make sure they aren’t eaten
  5. Make sure they aren’t acting weird
  6. 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.

The Dreaded Job Search

Today marks the first week of summer vacation. The dreary days ruled by school bells and textbooks are over for a few months, giving my brain some respite. However, replacing these days are grueling mornings chasing after my miscreant pug puppy, trying to keep the little devil from killing my elderly pug. What fun!

Regardless of this, I really do enjoy my summer. Unfortunately I am at the age where my parents are waiting for me to start producing my own money, via employment. I did have a job last summer/fall, but my naive self decided that instead of working at a job that didn’t really align with my interests, I could find a job that actually made me happy. I want to do something I’m passionate about, is that so wrong? And since I spent a year volunteering at a local co-op/grocery store, and a season working at a farm stand, I figured I would make the ideal candidate for any job I desired.

With this in mind I confidently selected the submit button of my first application. Its been three weeks… I think I can probably assume they don’t want me. After the first week of silence, I applied to another place, still brimming with confidence. Nope. Third place. Nope. Fourth place. Nope. The worst part is the ignoring. I wish they would just tell me “You can’t work here” rather than having me desperately checking my email for acceptance. It seems rather disrespectful to prospective employees.

Its unfortunate, because I know I would be an excellent worker. I have a great work ethic, I’m responsible, friendly, experienced. I suppose my next realistic step is to apply to just a regular high-schooler job, and to be grateful for any opportunity given. Its a good lesson for me, and a surprising one as well. Adults always told me I could do anything, and now I realize that that idea is sort of a fallacy.

I should really just open my own farm stand 🙂

The Downside

The one year anniversary of my blogging has passed by quietly, but I really wanted to thank all of my followers- I don’t think I would have been able to keep this up without you!

From reading this blog, you can probably figure out that I am a rather anxious person. One thing wrong, and I freak out in a flurry of panicked question-asking on BYC forums, internet searches, and combing through chicken keeping reference books. A case of this happened the other day, in which a few of my lovely readers really helped calm me down.

I think this weird feeling has a great deal to do with the pressures of taking care of four living things. I am only a teenager. I hate saying that sentence, because (being a teenager) I would like to believe I can do anything. But the day that I lifted up that box full of peeping chicks began this feeling. It is always there, but most of the time is covered up by school, friends, books, etc…

Its the feeling of something high stakes. In all my life I have never had to deal with anything that would truly make a difference in a living thing. Sure, I have had a rabbit, and two dogs, but my parents were the ones making all the decisions. My mother had to decide to put our sick rabbit down, and my parents will have to make the decisions about our dogs in the future. But as far as my chickens…

They’re mine to keep, mine to take care of, and they’re mine to lose.

That idea terrifies me, but I’m getting used to it. They bring me so much happiness that it almost cancels the stress out. Almost.