All Us Chickens
Just came from the final celebration of my 61st Jubilee. It was the winter-quarter birthday brunch of six buddies who have been celebrating our aging since most of us were in our twenties.
One gift I received was particularly bold and imaginative: fresh eggs from Stephanie’s chickens. She keeps them in her mid-town backyard, as pets. I like that.
She did have to re-home a rooster after it took to waking central Raleigh far too early. But otherwise, she’s found them very good company, clucking and burbling and strutting around.
I learned this morning a few things about chicken care: mainly that it’s important this time of year to make sure that they’re combs don’t get cold; they’re prone to frostbite.
I’m tempted to knit a few hen hats for the next round of birthdays. But that might be sliding past bold to eccentric. Can’t have that.
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