Hay guys, what’s going on in this blog? I have big big lady chickens now. It’s amazing how fast it happens. You get a wild hair in the spring, build a house, and BAM, four months later you have monsters that eat all your foxgloves. No, I don’t know if they are seeing in van Gogh vision now as a result, but they do seem kind of crazy when I go visit them and hold still and they forget I’m there.

This is biggie-sized Calliope, the easter egger. My learnings tell me that Easter Eggers are mutty birds that are bred because people like the green and blue eggs. People often try to pass them off as fancier than they are, and often label them as Araucanas or Ameraucanas. Calliope was labeled as the latter. I think she is closer to an Araucana than an Ameraucana because she has the olive green legs and face muff similar to that type of bird. All she’s missing is the rumpless-ness–she has a very nice tail.

Veronica Peep has grown as well. Here you can see the two of them with the dearly departed Marty McFly. I thought Marty was destined for a pot, but apparently the children who own him now have grown too attached to him and have renamed him. I was very surprised, but pleased. I knew he was a sweet bird.

Veronica is a Buff Orpington. Orpingtons are kind of like the Halloween candy you get to at the very bottom of the bag. They are the Laffy Taffy of the chicken world. You can eat one and say, “That piece of strawberry Laffy Taffy was okay, but nothing compared to the Almond Joys on the first night. At least this Laffy Taffy is not that horrid peanut butter chew goo in the black and orange wrapper. That stuff should be illegal.” Which is to say, they do the job, but it is hard to get to excited about an Orp. They are either ignoring you or napping or ignoring you while napping. “Meh, I’m a chicken, what do you want from me?”

Cricket, or maybe this is Othercup, is one of my Sicilian Buttercups. They were impulse purchases at the feed store on a day when I was just coming in for feed. Impulse chickens are like the last accidental baby after the first seven. You love it, but you think maybe you shouldn’t have drank that entire bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 behind the granary.

The Buttercups are the peanut butter chew goo barf. They won’t let you touch them because they are of “flighty Mediterranean stock” as my chicken book euphemistically puts it, but they sure are eager to run over to me and peck at my delicious shiny toenail. Egg, Leg, or…Bag..el, ladies, no one rides for free. At least the other ones let me pet them. When their combs come all the way in, they should look like tiny rubber gloves stapled to their heads, and that should be good for some moderate lulz, like a lady in a ridiculous hat. Oh, I should have named one of them Camila P-B. I suppose it’s not too late, since they already hate me.

They are disappointing snots, tbqh. Sort of like Jennifer Grey’s character in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Smug, frowny, and unpleasant. “I’m telling MOM.” FECK RIGHT OFF.

Mr. Klassy was a prayer chicken. He came from a straight run of Polishes, that is to say, unsexed. Danger chicken. Please, please, please let her be a girl. Nope. I have been trimming his poof back so he can see. We got back from a week on vacation and his bangs were so long he would just stand there and act very, very surprised when you would pick him up.

Mr. Klassy is a snappy dresser and a true gentleman, and I am going to miss him. I need to get myself a farm or something.

Here are some things that have been amusing me for the past few days.

Video:
Chimps on skates.
Women who have voluntarily taken themselves out of society.