Jed Clampett Builds a Chicken Coop

It’s several weeks now since we became chicken farmers.  There are several unexpected outcomes since our initial investment.  First, I wasn’t prepared for just how ugly chicks become as they cross the road to chickenhood. 

Also, I never expected all of them to survive.  I still can’t believe there are 15 of them.

The biggest shock, however, has been the overall cost involved in raising a nonhuman brood.  The cheapest part of this whole adventure has been the actual chickens.

That first egg better be golden. 

They’ve changed a lot in three weeks.  They no longer look like fluffy, sweet dandelions.  They now resemble louse-infected seagulls with sparse possum-like feathers. 

Their cheerful peep peep peeps!!  have morphed into bawk Bawk BAWKS!! and the airborne nastiness that erupts each time their bin is opened is only appreciated by nearly three-year-old Max, who chases their dander with insatiable fervor.

Once they started to habitually fly the coop, I began to question just how healthy it was to have them in the same room we mostly try to eat in. 

When they took to perching on my loveseat and pooping on my floor, I banished them to the basement.  Even I have standards.  Nothing says spring-cleaning like removing dried chicken poop from your hardwood floors with a paint scraper.

Two weekends ago, John began undertaking the task of building a suitable coop. 

Two weekends later, they’re still in the house.

I assist by sending him useful links from Pinterest with encouraging tags like, “What do you think of this?” or “Other coop ideas.”

Mostly he replies, “Yep, you just made mine look like the Beverly Hillbillies.”

Some of the images of coops look nicer than our house; I’m fairly sure they cost more too.  It’s amazing what a couple of rosebushes and some fairy dust can do. 

Yesterday, I came home after work to find all 15 chicks wandering the basement in an obvious pen malfunction.  One was completely complacent sitting in its own bag of food.

I’m very close to whipping their semi-aerial carcasses into the back yard to let them scratch and peck for themselves.  At this point, I wouldn’t care if they all slept in the empty rabbit hutch.  

Without hesitation, I proclaim that chickens are the dumbest animals we’ve ever had.  

Also, John and I stink as chicken farmers.  

I guess as long as we don’t poop on our own food, we aren't in any immediate danger of losing our spot on the evolutionary ladder.