It’s been a while since I have written anything, mostly because nothing feels funny. I’ve been spending a lot of time alone in the garden, wrestling weeds, dodging skinks, talking to chickens.
My chickens have had a lot to say. One bird, in particular, has way too much to say. “Cock-a-doodle-doo￼,” to be specific.
Roosters are illegal in the urban district, so I need to unload this inconvenient bird, stat. Anybody want a brand-new rooster? Seriously.
My husband asked if there is a dating site for roos seeking hens, and, if so, is it called ChickenTinder?￼ I wish. I would enjoy writing that dating profile.
In the course of taking a glamor shot of Mr. Surprise to post on social media (#freebird), I noticed that his coopmate, Big Red Hen, was walking sort of weird. As it turned out, her backside was encrusted with gross stuff, so I abandoned the portrait session and, before I knew it, was sitting in the grass with an upside-down bird in my lap, cleaning her bum￼ with a garden hose.
I don’t want to over-share about my chicken’s private parts, but it was not pretty. The internet has a lot to say on the topic of “vent gleet,” which is kind of like a yeast infection around the cloaca or vent — the opening where eggs and poop come out — so I bathed her booty, trimmed the feathers around it, and sprayed the whole enterprise with antifungal medication.
To be clear, my own self-care is at a 49-year low, while my Rhode Island Red just got a Brazilian, along with what was left of my Tinactin.
Sorry, I’m venting.
Meanwhile, if you know anyone looking for a slightly cocky, gender-fluid Lavender Orpington whose pronouns are suddenly he/him, I know one that is looking for a long-term relationship, or, honestly, probably just sex. No judgment, either way. He just can’t stay here.