The news of kind neighbors giving Clio asylum sent me rushing down the street. I knocked on the informant's door, and she politely showed me which house below might be serving as the foster farm.
Too impatient to walk my way down the hill and around, the children and I ran for the car, swerved out with intention and parked ourselves in front of the said house.
A polite older man answered the door in his bath towel and slippers, only making the fact that I was there to inquire about a missing chicken that extra bit more awkward. Before I could apologize and explain myself, the children ran off about the bird and he immediately called his wife to the door.
The woman explained how Clio had appeared in their yard the previous evening chased by a fluffy dog, and that the home's Dachshund had been confined to the garage in order to preserve the well-being of our chicken, which had spent the day in the garden foraging for earthworms and chewing on the vegetation, perfectly content.
After thanking her profusely for her kindness, we were off to restore the last of our flock to her rightful place.
A dinner party was still in the making, but with our chickens safely home and the sun mellowing behind the eucalyptus, there was serenity in the household. As I gathered up some eggs to drop off for our helpful neighbors, I wondered how I had ever gotten myself into such a predicament.
Showing posts with label Cuckoo Marans Chickens. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cuckoo Marans Chickens. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
The Chicken or the Blog? Part VIII
And what’s behind door number three? A new car, of course!
The months that followed the Marans acquisition were uneventful in regards to our flock, but the extreme opposite in respect to my extremity. I went from the blue cast to surgery, with a guarantee that I would not be driving my old trusty 4Runner for a good year, so we opted for a fully loaded hybrid automatic. It was the only good thing, if you disregard the required monthly payments, that had happened to us in months.
In the meantime, I was not adjusting well to relying on others. I slowly slipped into a state of borderline OCD, one from which my husband and children had spent so many years pulling me. The disorderly hanging of clean shirts in non-color-coordinated order without the decency of being arranged at least progressively by sleeve length and, worse, at times facing the wrong way, would see me undone. How could anyone not understand my system? The fine details of daily life seemed out of my control and instead of being grateful for the help at hand, I found myself huffing and puffing like a spoiled child, only I was gracious enough to do it in my head. The shirts, the floors, the bathrooms, the pots and pans and just about anything not executed according to my specifications added to my frustration.
Thankfully, my equally obsessive mom came for the holidays, and I found comfort in the fact that someone found it completely reasonable to be bothered by such things. Of course she, being a rational person like myself, caught on to my systems immediately! Her visit seemed short, and though I faced my internal guilt for not having spent enough time with her, we enjoyed the holidays as a family greatly. Before I knew it, I could drive my new automatic and my parents were off, leaving us to adjust to a hopefully less adventuresome New Year.
The months that followed the Marans acquisition were uneventful in regards to our flock, but the extreme opposite in respect to my extremity. I went from the blue cast to surgery, with a guarantee that I would not be driving my old trusty 4Runner for a good year, so we opted for a fully loaded hybrid automatic. It was the only good thing, if you disregard the required monthly payments, that had happened to us in months.
In the meantime, I was not adjusting well to relying on others. I slowly slipped into a state of borderline OCD, one from which my husband and children had spent so many years pulling me. The disorderly hanging of clean shirts in non-color-coordinated order without the decency of being arranged at least progressively by sleeve length and, worse, at times facing the wrong way, would see me undone. How could anyone not understand my system? The fine details of daily life seemed out of my control and instead of being grateful for the help at hand, I found myself huffing and puffing like a spoiled child, only I was gracious enough to do it in my head. The shirts, the floors, the bathrooms, the pots and pans and just about anything not executed according to my specifications added to my frustration.
Thankfully, my equally obsessive mom came for the holidays, and I found comfort in the fact that someone found it completely reasonable to be bothered by such things. Of course she, being a rational person like myself, caught on to my systems immediately! Her visit seemed short, and though I faced my internal guilt for not having spent enough time with her, we enjoyed the holidays as a family greatly. Before I knew it, I could drive my new automatic and my parents were off, leaving us to adjust to a hopefully less adventuresome New Year.
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