- Tina
- 7 hours ago
- 6 min read
Have you ever felt like the universe conspires against you, dear reader? I'm talking about everything you touch turning to poo, you make everything worse, and accident after accident seems to follow you around, just waiting for you to will things to go right. Well, dear reader, that has been me the past month. If you are a regular reader, you know things went south and sideways with our barnyard family. The universe has decided that is not enough, oh no, let's see just how much this little Mary Sunshine spewing, optimist can take. Sigh.
Let me tell you about my Labor Day. I spent the weekend doing damage control on the farm. Everything on this farm is being dewormed, disinfected, swept clean, and made sanitary. I focused on my chickens and their coop. For five days, I treated my chickens for coccidia because they mingle with my goats, and I'm not going to be responsible for any illness spreading on my watch. Not only did the chickens receive treatment, but the geese and dogs did too. Once the treatment was complete, I focused on the chicken coop. I have replaced the roosting system, placed sand under the roosts, improved their laying boxes, removed the messy traditional feeder, put a vitamin and mineral block in the coop, and installed a fancy dust bath in a container, and am in the process of making a closed watering barrel, as well as replacing the traditional door with an automated, programmable door.
After cleaning the coop, spraying it down with bleach, scrubbing down the walls, floor, and nesting boxes, I dusted everything with diatomaceous earth and poultry dust. For good measure, I sprayed down the entire coop with permethrin to kill any mites or lice. Once everyone was in the coop and roosting, I sprayed them with a fine mist of permethrin to ensure they were free from mites and lice. I generally try to use natural treatments for most small issues, but after the month we have had, I wasn't taking any chances with anything.
Being the paranoid overthinker that I am, I awoke on Monday morning panicked that I had sprayed my chickens with a toxic dose of chemicals and they were all lying dead in the coop. I know, I never said I was rational, but after losing six goats, I think I have earned the right to be a little paranoid. So, without a bra, still in my pajamas, I threw on my new Ariat sweatshirt, along with my rubber boots, and trudged out to the chicken coop, expecting the worst. Lo and behold, everyone was perfectly fine and still alive and clucking.
Now, allow me to give you a bit of a back story about my new Ariat sweatshirt. First of all, I NEVER pay full price for clothes. My family briefly owned a store many years ago, and I worked in retail throughout college. I know what stores pay in wholesale, and I know the markup. I consider anything 25% off or better an acceptable amount to pay for an item of clothing. I fell in love with this Ariat sweatshirt and, against my better judgment, I paid full price for it. Sigh, first mistake. Second mistake, I wore said new Ariat sweatshirt to the chicken coop. Sigh.
With everyone still alive and clucking, I opened the door and let my little feathered friends out of the coop a bit earlier than usual. Not everyone was ready to go out, so some stayed on the roosts, and one, Crooked Toes, remained roosting in the rafter over my head. I quietly walked in to gather the eggs from the nesting boxes. I placed all six eggs in the pocket of my favorite sweatshirt and crossed the coop to collect the egg that some rogue hen had laid in the sand under the roosts. As I crossed the coop, I had to briefly step under Crooked Toes, who was roosting above me. You know where this is going, dear reader. At the exact moment I stepped under her, Crooked Toes unleashed an overnight holding of poo. I heard it before I felt it hit my head. The force that chicken poo hits one with from a few feet in the air is impressively forceful. I felt a sickening plop on the side of my head, and then the smell hit me. Of course, I screamed and put my hand on my head. Of course, my hand came away from my head covered in poo. Of course, I bent over wacking my head trying to get the poo out of my hair, screeching the entire time. When I bent over to get the poo out of my hair, I broke all six eggs in the pocket of my new sweatshirt.
I ran to the house and delicately tried to take off my coveted sweatshirt without getting chicken poop and egg yolk everywhere. As I slid it ever so carefully over my head, I heard a telltale plop hit my rug. Sigh. I now have chicken poop on my new area rug. Of course, Buster came over to see what all the commotion was about and smell all the gross smells. Of course, Buster stepped in the chicken poop and tracked it all over the hardwood floors. I unceremoniously tossed my sweatshirt on the floor of the laundry room beside the washing machine. I ran upstairs and got in the shower immediately. As I was getting dressed, The Bibbed Wonder came in and asked if I pooped the bed. Sigh. I told him my plight, and of course, he laughed.
I went downstairs, threw in a load of laundry with bleach. Of course, the washer decided to leak bleach water while my brand-new, full-price paid, favorite sweatshirt was lying beside the washer. Of course, the sweatshirt is ruined. Of course it is. That is not where my tale of woe ends. Oh, no, dear reader. There's more.
While taking a load of chicken poop out to the compost pile, I took Buster and The Bean for a ride on the Ranger. As I was clipping along at a good pace on my freshly mowed walking path, I misjudged how close I was to a fallen log. The front wheel of the Ranger clipped the log, and I went flying off the Ranger. When I say I flew off the Ranger, I mean I watched the Ranger turn into the woods without a driver as I flew through the air. I was so caught off guard by what was happening. My first thought was that I had just caused great harm to my kid. My second thought was, Oh, shit! This is going to hurt when I land. Hurt it did indeed. Thank God and our guardian angels, The Bean was okay. Buster was fine, too. They never even knew what happened. The Ranger appeared to drive itself into a pile of brush and came to a gentle stop.
The Bean was convinced the Ranger had run over me. It had not. I tried to sit up, but The Bean told me not to move. I was so stunned by the accident that I couldn't speak. As I lay on the ground in the fetal position, The Bean pulled out her phone and informed me she was calling her dad. Finally, I was able to speak and said, "No, don't call Dad. I'm fine." She helped me sit up, and then I started to cry. It was more from shock than pain, but I am a crier. The Bean felt my arms and legs and asked if I thought anything was broken. I told her no, I just felt stoved up and sore. She backed the Ranger out of the brush and drove me back to the house.
For the past few days, I have been walking around like a 100-year-old woman, rather than the spry 80-year-old I typically move like... wink. I have a nasty bruise on my hip that my child photographs every day because it is so gross. Sigh. Other than that, I am fine. I wholeheartedly believe someone was watching over us and keeping all of us safe. Thank goodness, I didn't hurt my kid. So, dear reader, that was my weekend of woe and mishaps. How was your weekend? Hopefully, you didn't wreck anything, hurt yourself or anyone else, and didn't get pooped on, or ruin a favorite article of clothing. Sigh.
I need to look up the astrology report and see exactly what is happening in the universe. Something certainly feels like it is in retrograde. Sigh. On this lovely September day, stay safe, be smart, don't walk under roosting chickens, don't put eggs in your pocket, don't drive too fast, or pay full price for clothing, and keep washing your hands.
