IN THE CENTER OF THE RING

I was brushing my teeth Sunday morning when I heard Matty talking on the phone to someone. Haggling prices, asking about what time they would be available.

A boat, I thought.

Nah, a kayak. He's been borrowing a friends kayak lately.

Never once did I think that we would be GETTING. A. CHICKEN. COOP.

AND CHICKENS.

So we drove to Texas City, paid the man for the chicken coop (which is awesome and even more awesomely fit into the back of the Super Saab SUV). Then we started calling feed stores to get the correct supplies for my chickens.

Note to Feed Stores: OPEN ON SUNDAYS. SERIOUSLY. COWS HAVE TO EAT ON SUNDAY.

We finally found one that was open, bought some 16% layer pellets (our chicken lingo is getting really impressive) and pine shavings and then had to make a decision.

Order chickens online (seriously you can do this)? Buy the young pullets from the feed store? Or contact the lady from Craigslist about her older hens?

We decided to go with the older ladies. I thought this was an excellent idea for many reasons: one, they would start laying eggs faster, which is the reason behind all this fiasco. Two, they might be able to kick Eli's ass*. Three, baby chicks might fall victim to the Bubble Mater, Slip N Slide and other various carnival action in our backyard. Or a damned opossum.

Matty and I cruised up to San Leon, stopping along the way to grab some boxes from a convenience store. Budweiser boxes. At this point, I sort of started feeling like Kim Kardashian's version of Farmer Joe. I was in wedges. And a sundress. We had just come from brunch.

Sooooo, Matty got a good lesson in how fast chickens can run, and I held the box.

I held a box of chickens.

Ladies and Gentlemen, meet Gladys Knight:



And the Peeps:



And our lovely assistant, IV, who is instrumental in dumping the shavings into the coop and feeding our veggie and fruit scraps to the ladies:



Life is pretty good on our farm. Every afternoon we come home, we let them out into the yard, we bring them treats. They are nature's little compost pile. We keep a bowl on the counter and into it goes our strawberry tops, apple cores, leftover lettuce, heels of bread, celery stalks.

IV is learning how to be still. Who thought a chicken could teach that?

"They are HENS, mama" he proclaims.

"We should go check on the LAAAAAADIES" he tells me when we pull into the garage.

We read "The Lorax" by Dr. Seuss last night.

UNLESS, the story goes. UNLESS.

"Unless WHAT, mama?" IV asked me.

"Unless you are a good care taker of the Earth and, well, that means having chickens" I replied.



Hippie love, my friends. MWAHAHAHAHA, I love being the mama.

*Editor's Note: Eli and Miley escaped into the yard last night and I had to BEAT A DOG with my bare hand to get it to release a chicken from its jaws of death. Feathers were everywhere. The chicken hid. I cried. I banished the dogs from my sight. The chicken came back. I felt like a horrible chicken keeper for allowing it to happen. The chickens forgave me. The dogs are still in trouble and are keeping a safe, clear 5' radius from me.