You've gotta hand it to these chickens. They are our first line of defense. And cheaper than Frontline.
We have had no tick incidents this year. So far. Knock on scrap wood that Farmer H brings home from work for building outhouses and miniMansions and workshops and tool sheds.
As I type this, from Shiba, my upstairs laptop, instead of New Delly, my basement desktop, the chickens are swarming the front yard and the porch. It's kind of creepy. Even though I've never watched The Birds in its entirety. They seem restless. Angsty. Like they're waiting for something.
Maybe they are anticipating the arrival of Farmer H. They will be anticipating a while longer. The Farmer has gone to Kansas City for a professional soccer game. Not that he's a soccer aficionado. He was offered two free tickets through work. The only hitch was...he had to drive to Kansas City. But his benefactor is putting him up in a hotel overnight, and the tickets come with a club thingy for free food and drink. So he's just out the gas money. He has taken his co-pilot, the #1 son. The Pony and I are holding down the Mansion. The Pony is tending the flock and the herd.
For the record, chickens really like two-day-old instant mashed potatoes, fried rice that sat out all night, and the dry, tasteless edges of Pop Tarts. This army is marching on a stomach full of unwanted carbs.