Thursday, November 22, 2012

Still Fighting To Clear Her Name

Yesterday, The Pony discovered over a dozen eggs in the chicken house.

"But Mrs. Hillbilly Mom," you might say, "isn't that where you would EXPECT to find eggs from your multitude of chickens?"

Yes. And no. The chicken pen has an open gate policy. That's because some of our birds are too stupid to fly. This way, they can come and go as they please. They roam the grounds all day, feeding on delicious bugs and seeds and sometimes dogfood right out of the dog dishes on the porch. At night, some sleep in the chicken house. The fliers roost in the cedar trees. Every now and then, a broody hen will set up shop inside the chicken house, and remain for three weeks until her babies emerge from their shell prisons. During that time, other hens will lay in there in hopes of her hatching their eggs.

Over the last month or so, The Pony has only been finding one egg a day. Maybe two. Farmer H has accused my little dog Juno of eating his hen fruit. I object. Exhibit One is Tank the Beagle found inside the chicken house every evening when The Pony embarks on his collection odyssey. Sure, Juno has beautiful, shiny, silky black fur. The kind the internet purports results from the dog eating a raw egg a couple times per week. But Juno is not in the chicken house. She won't fit. Nor will our other egg-eater, Ann, the black German Shepherd, who is probably part Lab. I have seen Ann carry eggs in her mouth, then bite them and eat them when she thinks nobody is watching. But she does not lay on the floor of the chicken house 24/7 like Tank.

Farmer H has been on vacation from work this week. He mentioned that he was going to fix the chicken house so that Tank would not be able to get in. Something tells me that Farmer H is not going to make the connection between the multitude of eggs and the absence of the Beagle.

Not even if it showed up as a plot on Law and Order: Special Chickens Unit.


Sioux said...

Yes, men are often unable to make what we women consider logical connections.

For examples, they overestimate the length when it comes to inches. A couple of them becomes more like a couple of feet, in their delusional brain.

I think you need to go to the blog savage chickens and suggest your new crime-crackin' show idea. He might appreciate it...

Hillbilly Mom said...

I will mosey on over to see the savage chickens. Though why anybody would want to entertain my fowl suggestion is beyoooond me.

Yes, those bear-pawed fumblers are length-challenged. Give them an inch...and they'll call it six.

Kathy's Klothesline said...

Poor Juno, last dog to join the pack is always blamed! Just ask Toni Louise. She is so happy to have Martha the boy cat to take the blame.

Hillbilly Mom said...

Toni Louise is very lucky to have such a high-profile blametaker in Mr. Martha.