The Chicken Curse

I am cursed, dear reader. I'm calling it the chicken curse.  What are the chances that just when I get into pretty, exotic chickens, a hawk population explodes in the surrounding woodland? How can it be that the pretty little fluffy bummed beauties I hatched in my little incubator and named Blanche, Bianca, Colette, Little Louie, and Andre decide that the cool kids hang out by the hay bales above the pasture, and a HUGE black cat moves in and kills my little Blanche? Statistically speaking, what are the chances that my tiny, adorable Sarama roosters, Frick and Frack, would develop some illness, and now I am just down to poor little Frick? I had two little silkie hens, Bob Dylan and Joan Baez. I walked into the feed room to get chicken feed. While I was in there, the farmer went through with big equipment, and Buster was hanging out by the barn door. When I came out of the feed room, Joan Baez was dead. At first, I blamed poor Daryl, the farmer. However, once reason kicked in, and the evidence of one bloody puncture wound to her little fluffy head was seen, I knew The Heavy-B chomped her. Sometimes, my big red buddy is a jerk. He could have chomped Clarinda, but no, it was my pretty little Joan Baez. 

It's always my pretty, sweet, docile chickens who come when called by name who end up getting it. I mean, not that I want anything bad to happen to anyone, but seriously, water dish shitting Clarinda is still alive and clucking. Why can't the chicken curse fall upon my crazy-ass white chickens? You know why, dear reader? Because the universe continues to mess with me. Let's take something that she loves, puts a lot of time into, and that makes her smile, and then let's crush it. Sigh. 

Of course, I don't believe this. I mean, I mostly don't believe it. However, one has to admit, it seems pretty suspect when the chickens I despise continue to do despicable things and my little sweeties end up dead. I really like fancy chickens, and it's the ugly, mean, crazy white ones that everyone says are ugly, mean, and crazy who somehow survive. The Bibbed Wonder says I am jinxing them by naming them, but Clarinda has a name, and a big cat hasn't eaten her. 

It's always the little cuties who are paired off that end up dead as well. Mr. and Mrs. Frizzlebottoms....Mr. Frizzlebottoms got eaten by a hawk. Now, poor Frizz is a mean, moody misery that pecks at everyone. Poor Bob Dylan tries to find other friends, but she has really good hair, and it makes her think she is a little bit better than everyone else. I mean, she's not wrong, but it's a lot to take in, and chickens are so judgmental. Poor little Bianca lost Blanche to a murderous cat. Now, she hangs out with Colette, a little lavender cochin hen who is about her size, but we all know Colette is just the fallback friend. Colette will forever live in dead Blanche's shadow. It's not a good place to be. 

Frick and Frack were like Bert and Ernie. I mean, you've probably heard the theories behind Bert and Ernie's relationship. I'm not judging, but there was some question about the foundation of Frick and Frack's relationship. Poor little Frick just can't find his place in the flock. The ladies aren't interested, and, truth be told, he's not that interested in them. He's just a little lost soul wandering around lost and lonely without his little rooster buddy...so sad. 

I have accepted that I am only meant to have rude, aggressive, unpleasant, and unfortunate-looking chickens. It's the chicken curse. Everyone I find adorable and delightful ends up dying cruelly and mysteriously, or maybe not so mysterious. I continue to hold on to the possibility that it was poor Daryl the farmer who killed Joan Baez and not my Heavy-B. What? It could have happened! The combine the size of my house could have just nicked her little head and not squished her flat like a pancake. I know it's a stretch, but I can't deal with my beloved Heavy-B being a murderer. 

So, the chicken curse continues. My pretty babies are dying off, and water dish-shitting Clarinda lives on. There is a saying that God doesn't want her, and the devil's not ready for her... This is 100% accurate in Clarinda's case. Not even satan wants her pooping in his water bowl. Sigh. 

On this very November-like day, stay safe, be smart, sometimes the only thing to do is make up ridiculous stories about tragic situations, and keep washing your hands.