The Chicken or the Egg?

Our house on Morgan Street not only has its own Matryoshka of Thompson kids, it may be the neighborhood's number one petting zoo.  It’s like a friend of mine remarked, “There is life peeking out from every window in your house.”  It’s true.  We couldn’t possibly live in our house any more than we already do.  We do it in every crevice, corner, and cubbyhole.  Since we moved in, single rooms have served a multitude of purposes.  Closets have served as temporary nurseries.  Living rooms have morphed into playrooms.  And dining rooms, into chicken coops.

For almost a week, in the far corner of the dining room, under the warmth of a single heat lamp cheep fifteen fluffs of new feathers.  Leonard, the family cat, winks lazily at us from his wooden perch next to his discovered pile of fowl.  He seems more bemused than hungry as he watches them roost and tumble. 

What were we thinking? 

Eggs, mostly.

Aside from pizza, eggs are the only food every one in our house that both carnivore and vegetarian will eat.  Fried, scrambled, boiled, or baked in a cake.  As long as they’re not fertilized, we’ll take ‘em.

With the Thompson luck, they’ll all turn out to be roosters. In which case, they’ll be served barbequed or baked.

“You can’t eat my pets!” Kenny has already hollered several times at John.

“But think how tasty they would be all fried up!”  John retorts.

Mr. Fowl can’t pass through the dining room without stopping by to talk to his friends.  He’s like a new mother—except that he’s salivating. 

“Looking yummy!” he often compliments.

“Peep peep!” they call back.

The plan is to have a chicken coop built in the back yard before we resort to blocking off the dining room and scattering wall to wall straw.  Though given the average time it takes to finish most household projects, this solution might not be far off.

I wonder, does having chickens make us white trash or third world? 

My mom worries about us catching lice from our feathered vermin.  I worry just as much about them catching something from us.  After all, daycare Max is our very own Typhoid Thompson.

First breeders, now farmers.  With us, each week is a new adventure.