BOY HOWDY was Franny out of it last night when she came back from her dad’s. She was repeating herself and generally acting like she was completely on drugs. I was treated to stories of naps and confusion. I can only think she has whatever virus I had. I sent her to bed early and she is home reading today. It’s hard, though. I don’t want her to miss too much school, but she doesn’t have a fever.

In other nooooos, I am looking at placing a chicken order. I think instead of going to the feed store and rolling the dice on a straight run, I will order sexed birds, which will give me a 90% chance of girls.

I worked all weekend and all my clever is squeezed out of me, I think. I feel buried–behind on email, cleaning, life.

This weekend’s mad panic was a LOOSE CHICKEN! No, a young Disney starlet was not roaming my neighborhood. She was a very handsome barred rock that did not belong to us. Generally, for reasons I can’t and don’t care to articulate, I don’t purchase the barred utility chickens. Boring! They are red tulips. Okay, I guess that was an articulette.

Marty McFly was kind of an exception, but he was a cochin. Maybe part of it too is that when I lived in Crown Hill there was a lady who lived across the alley (who lived in “GREENWOOD, thank you very much.”) and had about 23 barred rocks in a weenie space that were all pecking each other to death. Her chickenry was appalling.

Anyway, a nice neighbor knocked on the door, one who is across the street and came over to chat me up about my Xmas angel while I was out spraypainting my newest mirror for the mirror wall. We also talked to the lady with the Independent Dog and I think Moonpants might have been involved as well. Everyone was VERY CONCERNED about the homeless chicken.

I clean my coop, I throw my ladies scraps. I talk to them (they ignore me). They follow me when I am digging up bits of the yard. They always have plenty of chookchow and water, especially if it is hot or frozen out. But that is kind of where it ends. Generally chickens are content to stay near you if you raise them and feed them and provide a completely enclosed space OR a slightly ramshackle backyard that is reasonably fenced. But I am not going to stand over them going PRECIOUSSSS or tag them. Chickens run away. They get themselves eaten.

I think the neighbors were far more concerned about this vagabond chicken then I ever would be. Independent Dog lady trotted up to me as I was leaving with the girls for a family march around and said “We found the chickens home!!” and I blanked for just a minute.

“Oh GOOD, GOOD,” I said, brain caboose finally having caught up to the engine.

“We just wanted to let you know.”

“Thanks.”

This weekend I have also started a Good Behavior During the Arsenic Hour star chart for someone who actually tries to figure out how many people she could drop into a volcano all at once and how to build machines that “could beat the police, all of them.” I am going to save it for when the media comes to my door 30 years from now and the caption Mother Of Supervillian appears under my name on the news later that night.

“I TRIED!” I will say, shoving a greasy and rumpled paper through the crack in the chained door. “Here is her star chart from when she was five!”

On Sunday I worked all day. Someone at work basically died and I got a battlefield promotion. I am sitting on the couch tickity tap tick click DING and I looked up and saw a wee brown chicken in my front yard, loose and easy. Shit. I don’t have time for this shit.

I set down my laptop and slid into my shoes and mentally prepared myself for what was probably some degree of public humiliation. Is there anything more ridiculous than a grown-ass person chasing a little fucking chicken? Not really, my friends. Not really.

I emerged onto my front lawn.

“Death Ray. I see you, Death Ray.” Suddenly I am Martin Landau in Ed Wood. “Come to me, Vampira.”

We had a chase through the bushes. Death Ray looked at me, one beady black eye at a time. She zigged and I zagged. I held my arms wide, which works for cornering them, but there was no corner. She was free, and nuts to me.

Then the crows came! They swooped, attacking this strange specimen that was on their turf. Death Ray ran further and further away, bolting down the sidewalk. This is a chicken who has never been out of the backyard. I can only imagine how terrifying that must have been.

Death Ray came to an intersection and crossed. Ploop! She was out in traffic. Cars stopped. I felt my face burn as I waved people on as Death Ray stood dazed in the middle of the busy street. People drove around her slowly and gingerly. She crossed over. Why does the chicken cross the road? Deep stupidity, that’s why. Two pounds of chicken, beak, and feather was now holding up traffic.

She came to rest under a low-slung compact car. Her eyelids drooped and she looked like she was about to doze off. I tried to grab her and she dashed off into the bushes on the other side of the road. Finally, I managed to grab a little leg and she screamed, feathers exploding everywhere. The fact that chickens explode feathers when they are really distressed is something I enjoy, though I try not to exploit it.

I carried her back to the backyard with her muttering and burbling all the way. My knees were muddy and that was about all the exercise I got all day. How was your Easter?

Generally, chicken ranching is going very well, and their society seems very stable at five. There is no sad pariah chicken and no real bully. The pecking order is settled and there is always a hen to keep another company, even if one or two go broody.

HOWEVER, there are apparently cracks in paradise. Someone called the city and reported me–I got a letter yesterday. It merely said, “Three is the limit” and dinged us for the dead Christmas tree in the driveway, which, NOT ours. The neighbors left the tree in the driveway for months last year as well. It is their way.

So now I am faced with which two chickens to give away, which sucks. And yes, I broke a rule and got called. That’s life. I am thinking the two silkies should go together, since they were raised together, and are homies. I would also let the giant blue cochin go with a silkie. The cochin is my youngest and she is laying very well now that it’s getting lighter–she’s just under a year old. All three birds are very non-aggressive.

Pass this on if you can think of someone who might want to take a couple for free. Otherwise I will put a call on Backyard Chickens in a few days.

So, whomever you are, anonymous reporter, vengeance is yours. Unless you are the new people in the apartment which overlooks my backyard who have commented on how noisy our chickens are, because you will soon discover that three chickens make as much noise as five.

Email sj at this domain for details/pics. Thanks.