Farm Hens Move to Seattle

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So, my eldest kid, a son, got a home in a cute, close, back-to-the past neighborhood. He and his girlfriend live in a vintage home with a big yard within walking distance of shops, restaurants, salons, and grocery stores. So, what is missing? A touch of home; he and his lady wanted farm fresh eggs and the company of chickens...

Okay, I have some year old hens that could provide them with more eggs than they can use. Three Araucana/Rhode Island Red cross hens who lay at least an egg a day, each. Not very socialized, because their mom was super secret about her nest and her nestlings.

So, a couple days ago, I brought them to Seattle, along with tools to build a nice home. Wow, what a project. I gotta say, it is impressive and in keeping with the neighborhood. BUT, what a project, and in 90+ degree F. weather. The sore hands, chicken and chicken-wire scratches, sunburn, and exhaustion would have been enough for me to qualify for the finals in the Mother of the Year awards (what? you don't think our kids compare notes?). But, I got extra points.

See, one of the hens, whom I have dubbed Roamy, for her penchant to roam independently up to a half mile away from our place on the farm, got out of the yard. We searched, we spotted, we tried to corner, we failed. She remained on the lamb.

In one spectacular dive to grab her, my sandal caught on a stump covered with ivy and I went down, knee first, right on a huge pointed rock. Pain, blood, even an exposed bone. Cool. Chicken wrangling at it's best.

So, I patched myself up, worked on the Cluck Majal the rest of the day, and periodically asked passers-by if they had seen a hen. And, lo and behold!, a neighbor came to us and reported her location! I changed into appropriate chicken catching shoes, albeit belatedly, and went in pursuit. With three others, all younger and faster than I.

We caught up with her, trespassed on several properties, tipped over stored bicycles, tried to minimize shrubbery damage. But, finally, in a riotous, shrieking, beating torrent of wings of fury and claws (the hen's, not my son's claws and wings...), my son grabbed the escapee midair.

So, tonight, we nurse our wounds and our sunburns, review our day, and count our chickens, literally. Just another day in the life of folks who choose to have animals in their lives...