Bark, bark here and a cluck cluck there....

I'm back. That's all I have to say on that point.

Not much in the way of news around here. Except for this:

We're getting chickens.

Yes.

Chickens.

Chickens.

No, I don't have anything against chickens in general. I love the edible side of the picture. It's the fact that we will be raising the creatures themselves which puts me off.

I have a (in my opinion not all that irrational) strong dislike/borderline fear of chickens.

There. I said it.

Because what little creature with a sharp mouth, pointed toes, and beady eyes can really be trusted? (Although I loved our cockatiels.)

This hate/fear goes back to a visit to my grandma's years ago. I don't remember how old I was then. Maybe...11 or 12? Grandma had chickens - hens and roosters. I thought they were funny, ugly, rude little monsters. I loved throwing bits of moldy bread into their pen and watching them all scrabble to get a bite. Rather like seagulls, now that I think of it.

On this particular day, I was wandering along toward the backyard, where everyone else was hanging out, when I spotted Grandma's rooster stalking my way. I must have heard something about how mean this fellow could be or perhaps seen some demonstration previously, because I was instantly on guard.

And I learned that chickens, like most other creatures, can smell fear.

The rooster made a beeline in my direction, taking very deliberate, firm strutting steps and eying me maliciously. And silently. At first I tried to pretend it wasn't happening and continue on my merry way, telling the rooster to back off. But he kept coming, and I was overwhelmed by a sudden fear for my well-being.

I do believe I may have been crying or very nearly by that point. I was downright terrified as the rooster continued to advance. I was also struggling to keep an eye on the evil thing without making eye contact, knowing that animals feel threatened and are more likely to attack when you make eye contact with them. (And at that point I didn't care whether or not the rule applied to mean old roosters.)

All my efforts to will the rooster to leave me alone and let me pass were in vain. He charged.

I screamed. My first (and so far only) blood-curddling scream of the terrified and life-threatened.

I don't think any part of the rooster actually made contact with my body, but I was too busy trying to run on legs that had suddenly gone weak, shielding my eyes from wildly flapping wings.

And then Wes came racing around the corner of the house asking what was wrong. I was crying at that point, and I had trouble telling him what had happened.

Though I can't guarantee it because shock gave me a poor recollection, I'm sure Wesley laughed at me, and proceeded to tell Dad that Amber got attacked by a chicken and was now bawling like a baby.

So I think my distrust of chickens is at least well-founded, if a little...well, irrational? I stand by my instincts, though.

Then there's the part where I read a book about a girl in the 19...40's? whose family owned chickens, and the chickens abused her and pecked at her incessantly and were all around monstrous. That's pretty much the only part of that book which has stuck with me.

Mom's been researching all sorts of chickens. She's set on getting Buff Orpingtons. (And I only know that's what they're called because she said, "I want Buff Orps" and Dad said, "Oh, buff orcs?" and proceeded to display his biceps while saying, "Those are the orcs that are..." *flex flex*. I laughed, Dad chuckled, Mom glared.)

I've made my opinions very clear on the subject. Perhaps I've been rude or childish about it. Mom just shakes her head. She has assured me that she's only getting hens because she only wants the eggs, and Buff Orps are "docile and gorgeous".

As if a fat feathered fowl could be called "gorgeous". Granted, they have a nice russet coloring and aren't horribly built as far as chickens go....

And I'm totally going to demand we call one "Buffy". (Get it? "Buff Orpington?" Maybe we should give one a Lord of the Rings name in honor of Dad's quip. Galadriel? Merry? Or that evil female cousin of Bilbo's?)

Much to my confusion, I'm almost excited about the whole notion.

So that's the deal with chickens. And pretty much the only news in our household at the moment.

You know the drill. I was going to post this last week, when Mom declared, "We're getting our chickens next week!" but never got around to it. I have another post I'm planning based on Pastor's sermon last Sunday morning, but I haven't sorted it all out.

Next on the agenda of my uneventful life: my birthday!

Also the day I leave for a weekend single's retreat. Which I was convinced I'd never ever do.

I also said I would never abide chickens, and here I am picking out names.

While Mom plots out places to put the chicken set-up, I'm plotting my garden. So psyched! Beans, peas, squash, cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers, onions, corn.... Most of which I don't eat. And then there's the flower garden(s?) I'm planning. I wish we could have taken the rosebush from the old house with us. I loved that thing. I tried getting a cutting from it to get a new bush, but that failed. And like as not the new tenants will tear it up because they're allergic to or against roses or something.

So I'm hoping to get roses, lilies, irises (maybe), some little annuals....

And I'll spend my days weeding the vegetable garden and tossing overripe tomatoes to Buffy and Lobelia. (That's the name of the grasping relative. Yes, I just googled it.)