The evil chickens have LEFT the building!

HOORAH! Woot-Woot-Woot!  Yesterday I happily boxed up Satan’s Minions our chickens for transport to their new home! (Oh allllll riiiiight. So I didn’t really help. I supervised, didn’t I?)

Begone, winged beasts! Oh pestilent poultry! Fowl land mine leavers most foul!  I command you to LEAVE THIS PLACE!  *Walks the yard holding a cross at arms length, swinging an incense orb in her other hand.

I. am. so. HAPPY!

For those just tuning in, I have a real thing about chickens. Their beady eyes, flappy wings and terrifyingly bold nature freak me OUT. Me noooo likey. I’ll spare the regular readers, but do a search for “evil chickens” in here and you’ll have reading material up the yazoo.

I was especially happy to see them leave after I spooked them by accident –with a plastic bag of all things– and one of them flew up in my face and hit me hard enough to bend my glasses. In. My. Face. In-my-FACE.

IN MY FACE!!!

*Waves goodbye while giddily breathing into a paper bag.

The absolute last, final word: Alektorophobics, you are NOT Alone!

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I woke up this morning to find my dog in Hork position.

On the carpet. Hunched over, looking green and ready to do that thing that dogs do. On the carpet. On. The. CARPET!

Survival Mode!

I sprinted to the front door in my jammies calling, “DexterDexterDEXTER..!” in a blind panic, tripping on a toy, stubbing my toe on a door frame and mowing over the cat along the way.

But we MADE IT.  All manner of awfulness occurred outside. Can I get an Amen?

Why do sick dogs aim for the carpet?

Why do dogs chew up their toys and gag on small pieces?

Why do bloggers disappear into oblivion for a month and then announce their return with stories of Dog Yutz?

I cannot explain these things. But. I’ve gotten a TON of work finished in the past few weeks, so now I get to play on my blogs again. Yaaaayyyy!

Missed ya.

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Random weirdness from my house

Random oddities from my house. Got any random oddities from yours?

1. I once named a pictus cat (aquarium bottom feeder) ‘Stevens’ just so I could call him Cat Stevensfish. ba-da-BUMP!  (You have to be at least 40 to get that lame joke.)

2. Currently, we have a kitty named ‘Fisher’ and in the aquarium, a red bellied pacus named ‘Cat.’  According to my husband, this is so we can call the cat ‘Fish’ and the fish ‘Cat.’ (And you thought the Cat Stevensfish joke was lame!)

3. Our 80 lb. rottie mix is deathly afraid of the neighbor’s chihuahua.

4. Our house eats hand towels and then regurgitates them into the wash. Despite my best efforts, there is never a hand towel available in the kitchen or the bathroom.  I put them out– really, I do –and they immediately disappear. As a result, I wash LOADS of hand towels, yet I’m forced to dry my hands on my jeans. *sigh*

5. I am mentally incapable of  keeping track of a cup of coffee. I drink the stuff every day, and yet I cannot finish a full cup without forgetting where I put the doggone thing down. I leave them in the bathroom, on dressers, on the front step…  By noon I’m usually on my 3rd or 4th coffee mug. When I do dinner dishes, I send the kids on a cup hunt to find any I lost all day. Do they make The Clapper for coffee cups? I really need to buy one!

Sooo…that’s random weirdness from my house. What can you share from yours?

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My knight in shining black fur

Daughter #1 with my fuzzy hero

My husband was out of town last night. In his absence, Dexter the Dog slept next to our bed instead of his favorite spot in the hall. At some point during the night I had a nightmare…and evidently got rather vocal about it.

Enter my canine hero.

Dexter is an 80 lb. rottie mix who is absolutely NOT allowed on the furniture. But this was no ordinary evening–something was wrong. Someone (he thought) was hurting his Mama! 

I awoke from a very creepy nightmare to the sound of deep growling. Next thing I know, Dex is standing on his hind legs, front paws on the bed beside me, snarling and baring his teeth and ready to shred whatever nocturnal beastie would dare to hurt his Mommy!

He was just as shocked as I was when he saw no one else was there.

Instant embarrassment! Dex dropped to the floor, tucked his tail and hung his head in shame. He’d been on the furniture! And growling! At MOM! I got out of bed and told him what a good dog he was and hugged him tight. My pj’s smelled like dog after that, but who cares.

Every woman needs a strong defender who loves her. 😉

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Now that there’s funn-ay, I don’t care who y’are!

Oh how I wish I had a photograph.

We live in the house of Stack-and-Pack; a two bedroom we outgrew long before we added two children and pets to the mix. Many moons ago we ran out of traditional storage space, and as a result we tend to go UP.

We’ve stacked, added shelving, bought taller dressers and bookshelves. We even built a cat perch atop our monstrous, fully enclosed guinea pig cage. The cat loves to sun himself up there and watch the guinea pig move around. (We had two guinea pigs, but recently lost one. The cat was not involved. lol!)

When Dexter the Dog began snuffling the cat box, I began to worry. It’s a covered cat box, and if Dex ever trapped Fisher inside, there would be wailing and gnashing of teeth. Just in case, it too was moved upward, on top of the guinea pig cage, where it’s worked out just fine.

Until now.

This morning I heard from the other room the oddest sound. I stopped typing just to listen. sssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh… What the heck? ssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhh… And then a horrible, anguished yowling from the cat. As I jumped up to investigate, the dog came running from the direction of the noise with a look that clearly said, “I didn’t do it! Wasn’t me!”

ssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…RRRRROOOOOWWWWWWLLLLLL!

Again I tell you, I wish I had a picture! It seems our rather robust cat, who tops the scales around 20 lbs in winter, had used the facilities and attempted to exit the enclosed cat box. Instead, he tipped it forward, where it landed hole-side-down on top of the guinea pig cage. My kitty cat was trapped inside his litter box, face mashed up against the top of the cage beneath him, with no way out. Meanwhile, the litter flowed out of the box, into the cage and all over the floor.

sssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Fisher may never poop in a box again.

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Our dog speaks en Español

We’re an English-speaking household, but ever since the girls were toddlers I’ve tossed the odd word or phrase from my rusty Spanish class days into conversation as a simple teaching tool. It’s become such a habit over the years that our whole family does it without giving it much thought.

It seems the pets have been paying attention.

I discovered, quite by accident, that Dexter the dog knows a little Spanish. We didn’t actively teach him Spanish commands, he picked them up on his own. Not bad for a 6 month old pup, not bad at all.

The first time I noticed a little something was last week.  I was coming out of the bathroom and almost ran over Dexter, who was camped out across the doorway. “Perdóneme,” (pardon me) I said, and He-Who-Normally-Lies-There-Like-Royalty actually jumped up and moved out of my way.

Odd.

The next time I took note was a few days ago when we got ready to go to the store. The whole family had been outside awhile, playing with Dexter to get his wiggles out before we left. “¡Vámonos!” (let’s go) I called out, and Dexter made an immediate beeline for the van. It seems he wanted to go for a ride, too. 

Oookayyy…

And then last night my daughter offered Dex a treat to ‘speak’. Hoping for more than one, he kept barking. Forgetting herself, Tasha snapped “¡Cállate!” (something I usually yell at the TV as I hit the Mute button.)

Dexter went silent. 

This morning I decided to test him. After returning from our daily trip of taking the kids to the bus stop in the van, Dexter and I began our usual walk toward the house. Mid-stride I breezily commented, “Vámonos.” Dex did an about face and ran back to the van.

Smart doggie.  I wonder if he knows his huevos are coming off today.

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Day 146 of Chicken Hell.

(Not really, I just made that up.)

The evil peepers have infiltrated our routine as faux family members. Daily they’re brought food, water, hay and fresh straw. I see them out there, clucking around the yard in what appears to be normal barnyard behavior.

They think they have me fooled.

I know that a chicken’s brain is the size of a pea. This brings me no comfort as that’s one honker of a microchip. Have no idea what their armament capabilities might be. Hidden arsenal of WMD’s suspected.

Military training exercises apparent. Yesterday I watched them ice skate down their ramp from a strategic position. One after another. They did not fly, slip or falter down the icy slope into a confused heap. Oh no, one by one they struck a pose and SKATED. Once they reached the bottom, they laughed (laughed, I say!), fluttered back up into Hell’s Henhouse and repeated the exercise.

Deployment may be imminent.

Using a high-end Codex, I deciphered some of the encrypted cackling in their native tongue:

“Dude! Watch this gnarly tube..” 

“Pffft! That ain’t nothin’. Lookit, I can bunny hop the rail!”

“RADICAL! Seriously sick!”

Intentions unknown at this time. Will continue covert op to stockpile weapons and observe enemy movements.

End transmission.

Chapter IX: The Evil Chickens have LEFT the Building!

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Know a good recipe for dead cat?

I may have one to contribute to the cause.

Today as I sat typing, a bird flew by the living room window near my desk. The blinds were closed, so only a shadow was visible.

About the third time it flew past, Fisher, our almost 20 lb. cat, jumped straight up from the floor, hooked the blinds with his claws, scrabbled in mid-air like a cartoon Wile E Coyote on the side of a cliff, and then plunged to the floor–taking broken pieces of the blind with him.

ArraaaAAGHHHHH!

And then…as if that weren’t enough damage, he had the audacity to leap onto my desk and prepare to pounce upon BLIND #2!

I grabbed the cat by whatever appendage was available–probably his tail–and unceremoniously removed him from my desk.

He was not happy.

I pointed to the broken blind. I was not happy. We squared off and agreed to be mad at each other for the rest of the day. So far, he’s kept up his end of the bargain.

…And what have YOUR pets broken lately?

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There is a disturbance in The Force.

There is a strange phenomenon that occurs once every millenium or so. (At least, according to my children.) That strange event is informally known as Mom Gets Sick.

While my nasty sinus-headache-flu-ey thing is nothing to write home about, it does warrant a few temporary changes in our household. Seriously, I’m dragging ass and prefer few demands are made upon me. The more chores I can shuck, the better. And really, our kids are 9 and 13. Is it asking so much for them to pitch in?

Mo-ommmm! The dog wants out. (As I lay there on the couch, hugging a heating pad and honking into a kleenex.)

Then take him.

But I had to take him last time. It’s not my turn!

Sweetie, I don’t feel well. Your sister’s in the bathroom, please take the dog for a walk.

But Mo-ommmm! I’m busy! (She’s sitting in the recliner, working a Rubik’s cube.)

-Dexter the dog crosses his eyes and whines profusely-

Child, (which sounds like ‘Chide’ when one’s doze iss stuvved ub.) I want you to know I say this with love in my heart. But if you don’t take the dog outside right. stinking. now.  I’m going to sell you AND your sister. Together. To a militant dog-walking academy that ignores all child labor laws.

Do I really haavvvve to?

Unless you want him to crap in your snow boots, then yes, you do.

Hurry up and feel better soon, Mom.

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Don’t lick me when I’m nekkid!

Relax, this is not that kind of blog.

Dexter the dog is a wonderful pet, but he has one major flaw. He loves to walk up unannounced and take a big swipe with a wet tongue about four feet long.

Who loves ya, Baby?

Dog spit is not high on my list of happy things.

It’s not really an issue when I’m wearing long pants, or when he catches a sleeve. But when I’m stepping out of the shower and he barges in and schloops up the side of my leg…? Or when I’m trapped on the toilet and he comes slurping on my nekkid knees?

This is the way of Madness.

I mean really–picture yourself upon the throne. You’re committed, unable to leave. In barges a  50 lb. mutt intent on swiping his happy-go-lucky tongue on your person! If you’re home alone, how do you finish the process and attend to the details?

Surely you understand my concern.

I don’t even know how he gets into the bathroom. Honest, I don’t. It’s a brand new trick he’s discovered, and he does the same thing with bedroom doors. This makes getting dressed an awkward sort of chicken dance across the bed, because Dexter’s not allowed on furniture. (Of course, he’s not allowed to lick me nekkid, either, but the furniture thing he actually obeys.)

I know, I know. Lock the doors.I just don’t think about it. I mean really–how often do you lock yourself inside rooms in your home when you’re there all by yourself? I’d better start remembering, though, because SuperTongue is really creeping me out.

I guess I should just be thankful Dex doesn’t open the front door and go licking the neighbors. One of them is an exhibitionist, and y’allllll…I’d need four tubes of toothpaste and a vat of Clorox before I’d let him back inside again.

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All around the cobbler’s bench the monkey chased the weasel…

Dexter the dog has learned a few new words. Sit, Speak and SNEAK. Ohhh yes, he has Sneak just about down pat.

Due to a condition called Incorrigible Puppyness, Dexter chews on everything. Puppy toys, rawhide, furniture, fingers. He doesn’t care, they’re all chew toys. We’re constantly tripping over half-chewed pig ears and rawhide strips, yet he’s left a permanent impression on our coat rack and kitchen cupboards. (sigh)

In an effort to preserve our furniture, dh won’t allow him in the whole house yet. He only has access to about half of it until he outgrows the chewing stage. Dexter is not happy with this arrangement, and so he sneaks.

ting-ting-ting!  I’ll hear the sound of his metal ID tag tinkling from the wrong direction. Look around, and there’s Dexter hiding under the coffee table. ting-ting-ting!  What…? Oh. There’s Dexter behind the recliner; looking pitiful because he knows he’s not supposed to be there.

Sometimes I’ll just get seated on the bathroom throne and hear ting-ting-ting!  from behind the door. Upon exit, I’ll usually find Dexter feigning innocence, laying on the kitchen floor. He’s allowed in the kitchen, but generally there’ll be some sort of contraband half-hidden beneath his body that came from an off-limits room.

Reminds me of Gollum in Return of the King. Sam: “What are you doing, then?” Gollum: “Sneeeeaking!” 

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These are the yolks, folks.

Got a little Captain in ya?

My teenager has an oddball sense of humor. Yesterday,  an evil chicken stood on the roofpeak of the henhouse, with one leg way higher than the other and bent at the knee to keep its balance on the steeply pitched roof.

Tasha pointed to it, then assumed the pose from the Captain Morgan rum commercials and quipped, “Got a little egg in ya? Cluck responsibly.”

That kid cracks me up! (Egg humor fully intended.)

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This one’s for Frenchie

No, not a Dom DeLuise-looking James Coco who says, “I’m not a Frenchie…I’m a Belgie!” (And double bonus brownie points if you can tell me what movie that’s from…) 

Nope, this Frenchie would be Laura from Mama’s Nut House. Heifer’s been on me about not posting often enough. lol! Thank you Frenchie, sometimes I need a good cattle prodding, so this blog’s juuuust for you!

Top 5 Things I Have Learned From Animals Not exactly a catchy title, but I’m under pressure. Get off me.

5. Chickens are diabolical. In all of bird-dom, each and every species instinctively knows to keep the nest clean. Chickens crap in their nests. In great gobs. You might think they’re simply that stupid, but you’d be wrong. No, this is their unspoken protest against The Man. (The Wo-Man in this case.) You want to filch our eggs, you baby-stealer? Well you go right ahead, but you’ll have to WADE THOUGH SHIT to do it! Go ahead! Brush your fingers against a steaming pile, you baby-eating Monster!

4.  A cat is the only creature that can convince you to pet it while holding you in complete contempt. Cats don’t like people. Cats don’t even like other cats. But they’ll sucker you into petting them just the same. Thaaaat’s right. Under the chin, human. Under the chin. And don’t you forget my Friskies treats, either or I’ll claw your shower curtain into confetti.

3.  Frogs are afraid of heights. Pick one up, it’ll pee on your hand. Guaranteed.

2.  Snakes could teach David Blaine a thing or two. Geraldine was 4 foot long and as big around as a 50 cent piece. She disappeared from a hole roughly the diameter of a pencil. I was horrified to have lost Dh’s pet, but impressed by her contortions nonetheless.

1.  Fish have personalities. Don’t believe me? Get a big one. When you can see their faces up-close and personal, you can tell. We raised oscars that loved to be petted. Had one that would jump out of the water for food like Shamu. Currently, we have a Pacu who smiles when you feed him. Think about that  the next time you chew on a lemon-soaked fillet.

Double Bonus Brownie Points. Could be yours! WITHOUT The Google, in what movie did James Coco make the claim, “I’m not a Frenchie, I’m a Belgie!”  <Cue Jeopardy theme music>

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Larry the Cable Guy could be my undoing.

This man could ruin my carpets.

We taught Dexter the dog a bathroom command so when we take him places, he’ll know where he can and cannot use the facilities. The dog training websites I consulted suggested “potty” or “pee-pee” as a command word, but let’s get real. He’s getting bigger, and I CANNOT say “pee-pee” to a 100 lb. dog with a straight face.

Instead, at my daughter’s suggestion, we taught him the command phrase, 

“Git ‘R Done.”

Last night she and I were walking Dexter before bed. On the way to his crappin’ spot, I accidentally said “Git R Done” to Tasha just in conversation. The dog instantly stopped and peed right there.

If we ever rent a Blue Collar video, our carpets are screwed.

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…And then came Dexter.

Because my life is not complicated enough, what with working two businesses, chasing two kids and keeping a wary eye on Evil Chicken HQ, I’ve added a new element to the mix. His name is Dexter.

I am adorable, am I not?

The first thing I must point out is that I don’t do puppies. Ever. My dd is nicknamed Puppy, and that’s as close as I come. I don’t do housebreaking and chewed up shoes and that odd little puppy smell. I do grown up, well trained dogs that already follow commands.

 Well, I did. Until I saw dis face. Dis widdle, take-me-home-I’m-so-cute face. Not that he was a whim, mind you, we were already in the market for a dog. But we didn’t get a dog, did we. We got a furball with big feet.

For those that care about such stuff, Dex is a Rottie mix. (No offense to the purebred folks–but I’m partial to mutts, m’self.) He has a full length tail, and it will remain so. I think tail and ear cropping is barbaric–but that’s another post for another blog.

Based on his parents, I’m guessing he’ll be a muscular 100ish lbs. Like our last Rottie mix (rest her sweet soul), he’ll leave poop piles roughly the size of egyptian pyramids.

Can’t wait.

I know he doesn’t look like much of a family protector yet. So far he’s a blankie sucker, (although not an underwear chewer–thank goodness!), and he’s afraid of the dark. He sleeps fine by himself, but only if I leave a light on like Motel 6. In short, he’s a wuss. But he’s MY wuss, and I love him to pieces.

Even though he smells funny.

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Oh Colby Dear…

     Ninja Squirrels taste just like chicken.

more cat pictures

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We have a Winnah!

Ugly gifs need love, too.

I’d like to thank all of you blog readers for helping out with our Name the Winged Rat contest! The entries were awesome (and way too funny, might I add!)

It was too hard for me to narrow down just 3 for my kids to choose from, so frankly I hung it up and let them choose from all the entries. (In light of the winnah, this is a good thing.)

Yeah, I changed the rules. So sue me.

Anyhow, the kids had a glorious time choosing, and though they wavered between a few funny names, they finally came to an agreement. Hallelujah!

And the winnah is…

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Are you still reading?

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Bet you’d like me to tell you, huh.

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I’ve known the winner for HOURS, too!

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Oh allll riiiiiight. The winner and residing champion is Dusty, with her entry Count Batula!  WoooWooo!

To see more of Dusty’s fine work, visit her blogs From My Front Porch and Giftedly Outspoken. Do it! Do it, I say! I promise you’ll get a good read.

Dusty, congratulations on your winning entry. The Count and I both thank you for your selfless dedication to the naming of the wild Munchinsectus Suckbloodus species. Look for your blogroll bump and an upcoming schmooze blog entry just for you! In addition, (oh the excitement builds!), don’t forget your $1.99 Michigan Mosquito Magnet will be on its way! Your refrigerator need never go nekkid again!

Side Note: Some of you know that Dus and I have been online friends for a long time. I’m glad my kids chose the winner, because the contest was definately NOT rigged! In fact, the kids struggled with narrowing down their favorites, and spent time agonizing between the winning Count Batula, Shadow and Beauregard, the Emperor of Doom.

Thank you all for the excellent entries!

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5…4…3…

Name me...name me NOW!

Can you just feel the air crackle with excitement?

That’s right, TODAY is the last day to enter our Name That Winged Rat Contest! Oh the competition is fierce and the prizes plentiful! You could get a blogroll bump, your very own post where I won’t make fun of you even once –ok, maybe just a little bit– or a lot. If I know you well enough I might make fun a lot– AND a brand new, never-been-stuck-to-a-refrigerator Michigan Mosquito Magnet! (That’s MMM good, doncha know!)

Oh yes, these fabulous prizes await the one person who can create a moniker worthy of our new yard bat! (Who has since brought friends, might I add. Say buh-bye to mosquitoes, baby!)

The contest ends at midnight EST. You can submit up to 3 names, so get crackin’!  YES! Oh Yes! I want to submit my free entries for a shot at fabulous prizes and good natured public ridicule! 

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Contest: Name that winged rat.

We live in Michigan, which may be the mosquito capital of the free world. Not only are they a nuisance, but they bring with them West Nile Virus, which can lead to meningitis, West Nile Encephalitis, or your left gonad falling off — kind of like half the prescription medicines available today.

A single bat can eat thousands of mosquitoes each night. For this reason, I built a bat house a few years ago. Followed online plans to the letter and put it up in our yard. I painted the outside black, and seriously considered painting the bat signal on it. I couldn’t wait to attract the predators that eat these little bloodsuckers.

Unfortunately, I threw a party but nobody came. Not a single bat moved in. The house sat empty and the mosquitoes continued to breed little bloodsucking babies. After months went by, I deemed myself a failure at bat house building.

Until…

Swooping, diving in and out of the glow from our yard light came a little brown bat munching mosquitoes. A bat! A bat has come to our humble abode! For the past week he’s been here, although I’ve no idea where he lives. I’m afraid of jinxing things by looking in the bat house.

I’m hoping he’s the scout about to bring a bunch of whoopass friends–sort of like Aragorn from Lord of the Rings leaping from the ship leading a swarm of ghost soldiers to save the day. Ohhhh yeahhhhh.

Sorry, I got distracted by thoughts of a good looking man in a dress.

I want to make this winged rat feel welcome. You’ll help me, won’t you? From now until next Friday (July 25th) I’m holding a contest to see who can come up with the best name for our little flying friend. I’ll pick my top 3 favorites, and then my kids will have the final say on the winning name. Winner gets promoted in an upcoming blog, a bump in the blogroll AND their very own classy and totally free Michigan Mosquito refrigerator magnet. That’s right–this brand new, still-got-the-sticker-on-it $1.99 magnet could be YOURS.

WoooEEE I spared no expense!

So get your brainwaves moving and submit your best bat names by commenting on this post. Limit of 3 suggestions per blogger. Deadline is 12 midnight, EST on July 25–winner to be announced whenever the hell I get around to it  July 26.

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Fern tried to kill me today.

She cut me. She cut me good.

<fade to black>

It’s day 56 of the Chicken Apocalypse, and I’ve formed an uneasy alliance with the Hens from Hades. Namely, I feed them treats and they don’t try to suck out my soul when I approach their pen. So far it seems to be working, as they’ve gotten much fatter and my soul is still intact.

Or so it seems.

Today I walked past their pen to get to the shed. As usual, they followed me the full length of their prison yard, eyeballing me the whole way. To ease their suspicions and diffuse a potentially dangerous situation, I took a leap of faith and put down the baseball bat.

They clucked their approval, and the two fat ones by the door put their lead pipes on the ground–but still close at wing.

Slowly, I reached for one of the ferns growing on the edge of our yard.

The chickens began to cackle with excitement and flutter about in their pen. After eating high dollar, perfectly balanced mash, oyster shell and hay all day, free and plentiful fern fronds are their favorite treat. Grabbing a handful, I yanked hard to break the thick stalks.

AYIII CARUMBA!!!! (and a few other Spanish words I can’t spell.)

One of the fern stalks sliced my hand wide open. Would never have believed it if I hadn’t done it m’self. It’s a PLANT, for pete’s sake!

I could see I was gonna live without stitches, but wanted to clean and bandage my hand. I dropped the ferns and walked to the house with the evil peepers trailing behind. They followed along the edge of their fence, clucking in disgust that I’d teased them with treats but didn’t deliver.

I think our fragile alliance is broken. 

I left the bat outside too, dammit, and the smell of blood in the air. I’m not going out there without backup, I can tell you that. Maybe I’ll make my daughter walk out in front of me like a shield. With any luck, they’ll eat the little one and leave me the hell alone. 

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Vampire Bunnies

Squeakers

My bunnies bite.

Should you ever come to my house with a handful of fresh vegetables, don’t get too close to the cage. They might confuse a finger with a carrot stick and nibble it right off.

Just so you know.

I told this wee exaggeration to our visiting 2 year old nephew to keep his tootsies out of the cage when I’m not looking. So far, it seems to work. Actually, what I told him is that our GUINEA PIGS bite, but Connor looked at me as if to say, “Woman, are you stupid?”

“BUNNIES, Aunt Kuddy! No Gee Pigs!” To him they are bunnies, and bunnies they shall remain.

Buddy

Two bunnies live inside our house, in a giant two story cage the size of our dining room table. It’s a little roomier than necessary, (but not much–they need a LOT of space), and this way the boys have room to themselves when they get in a mood.

Wish I could say the same for our daughters, who share a small bedroom and who have also been known to bite on occasion.

“She won’t pick up!” “Well it’s HER stuff!” “Yeah, but SHE got it out!”

Oy! Here–shove these carrots in your faces and go to separate floors. 

(sigh)

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…Oh I’m sorry…are you still reading? Were you looking for a message, or some sort of clever ending? I don’t have one. Nope, searched my sleep deprived brain and came up with bupkis. Cute 2 yr old thinking guinea pigs are bunnies, random joke at my kids’ expense–that’s all I’ve got. I’ll try to do better next time.

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Random weirdness from my house

We have a dirt track in our front yard. (Yes, I know. I have totally given up on grass.) With all this rain we’ve been getting, my daughters went mud bogging on their quads and returned home COVERED in thick mud. So badly, in fact, that I made them leave their filthy riding gear just inside the front door and go straight to the shower. The next day they washed their quads and made them all clean and shiny. Once dry, Ems (9) put hers carefully away. Tasha (13) promptly announced she was going riding.

Exactly.

It seems that her Dad promised to take the girls on the public trails this weekend. “Mom I have to get it dirty–I can’t go with a clean machine or other riders will think I’m a NEWB!”

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Our cat has figured out how to get into the chicken pen. Any normal family with a normal cat might be concerned about the safety of the birds. But this is no normal family!

He scaled the wooden doorway and dropped down into the pen to find himself surrounded by a flock of inquisitive poultry all larger than him. Immediately, the big wuss hit the fence and began yowling for help. (Our cat is such a pussy.)

Hmmm…why do I get an odd sense of deja vu? 

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This morning the phone rang and our 9 year old answered it. Then I heard her say, “Mr. or Mrs.?”  “I’m sorry–did you say Mr. or Mrs.?  Oh, he’s not home right now. Can I take a message?”

Our phone is in hubby’s business name, and we constantly get solicitations. Knowing this, I explained to my daughter that the caller was probably not from Michigan, and possibly not from the US–which is why she had a hard time understanding the accent. Ems replied,

“No Mom–she was just real quiet. She didn’t have an accent, she spoke Michi-geez.”

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So there I was…

We lock the evil chickens in Hell’s Henhouse at night to keep predators from finding them finger lickin’ good. Every morning, the girls let them out so they have the run of a large pen all day. It’s like a dog run but for chickens. A chicken run. (BAhahahaha! I kill me!)

We’ve had 9 chickens for about 2 months now, and I can finally enter their pen without hyperventilating.  So this morning, when our children slept in, silly me thought Hey…I’ll let the chickens out so the kids can relax this morning.

I thought I could do it. Really, I did. 

Half asleep, coffee cup in hand, I traipsed outside in my jammies to the chicken pen. All I had to do was open their door, secure the run gate and go back into the house. Easy peasy nice-n-squeezie. Or not.

The evil little bastards knew I was coming.

I know they did, because they did not saunter out at a leisurely pace like they do every morning for the kids. Oh no, I opened up that door and those beasts all flew at me at once–squawking and flapping and gnashing their teeth! (Do chickens have teeth? They must…I swear these things had fangs.) I had a flashback to childhood, where a rat in the henhouse + a screaming Kelly led to the same performance–except this time I was trapped inside the pen.

As they flew at me I shrieked and backed up to the fence, my favorite coffee cup sailing through the air. Flying at me like feathered vampires apparently wasn’t enough, because then they surrounded me! Pinned up against the fence, trapped by Satan’s evil horde all hopping up and down and ferociously flapping their wings, I detected an odd sound. At first I thought it was chickens chanting, “Kill the old bat! Kill the old bat!”  but then I realized the guttural sound gaining momentum was coming from me. Without even realizing it, I was pleading, “Don’t do that! Don’t do that! Oh please don’t do that!”  

Loudly.

–And then just like that, they lost interest and wandered away.

I stood there almost in tears over my own stupidity. Picked up my coffee cup and bruised ego and hightailed it out of the pen wondering if the neighbors were laughing hysterically behind their blinds, of if the kids were watching through the window. I know I was a ridiculous sight.

Funny yes, and Funny no.

I know it’s stupid.  I see the humor now, but early this morning I felt like I was going to have a heart attack. No, really–take whatever irrational fear you might possess and multiply it by 9.

See what I mean?

(sigh) The human psyche is a weird, weird thing.

Chapter VII: Day 146 of Chicken Hell

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The evil peepers hatch yet another plot

The evil chickens are still residing in our backyard. They’ve shed their fluffball disguises and grown into half feathered, half alligator skin Gollum-like creatures with beaks. They killed off 3 of their own before we put marbles in their pen. It seems they like shiny things, and are willing to commit poultrycide to get them.

My Precioussss…

We haven’t found a horribly mangled body in weeks, so I think we’re in the clear. It seems the Evil Menace get bored and require entertainment. Straw piles to dismantle, feed strewn about, and a mean game of marbles every once in awhile. They want you to think it’s a harmless child’s game, but they’re more like thugs on the corner strong-arming tourists into 3-card Monte. Plotting bastards.

Yesterday, I found a soft pear in the refrigerator. Thinking it might entertain them a short while, I tossed it into their pen. They like a variety of fruit, but turned up their beaks at the pear. Perhaps it was too ripe for their delicate little palettes, which are accustomed to things like perfectly balanced feed, hay, fresh grass and–oh, I don’t know–the still-warm flesh of fellow poultry dumb enough not to sleep with one eye open. Then again, they may have already begun constructing a diabolical plan yet to come.

At dusk, our girls went outside to put Satan’s Minions in for the night. While trying to shoo a wayward beast toward Hell’s Henhouse, Pup stepped backward onto the pear. Horrified, she immediately closed her eyes, lifted her foot and asked Ems, “Did I kill it? Is it dead?” 

Recognizing a prime opportunity to mess with her sister’s head, our youngest took on a tone of mourning. “Oh no. I think you killed it. It’s not moving.” Pup was devastated  until she opened her eyes to a gooey pear. –Then she was so relieved she forgot to be mad at her little sister.

Creamed chicken, anyone?

Chapter VII (The Saga CONTINUES!):  So There I Was

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…And then we have one juuuuuust for Colby.

Oh Colby-dear, aren’t these the Creepy Hairless Freaks easy to care for kitties you enjoy?

more cat pictures

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