I’m recovering from the 24 hour stomach flu, which, while in the throes of it and on the climb back out of the depths of sickness, I’ve had some really odd thoughts. Having all the fluids drained from your body must do that to a person.
First of all, a couple of days ago, I was taking a nap. This was pre-illness, but post nursing our 7-year-old through his bout with the virus. I was exhausted and fell asleep for my afternoon nap when the wind started blowing so hard that I dreamily wondered if my house, not securely attached to any real foundation, might actually blow away with me in it. I, rather appropriately, became Dorothy and found myself wondering if I was wearing the right shoes. Red, sparkly pumps to be exact, for my touchdown in Munchkin Land.
Second of all, once completely sick, I didn’t do much sleeping thanks to a 5 day old chicken I ungratefully named Happy Feet somewhere around 3:30 am. A couple of days prior, we purchased our new flock of egg layers…twelve three day old chicks…an assortment of Rhode Island Reds, Barred Rocks, Cucko Marans, and Jersey Giants. Well, one of them is not a real chick. It is something else disguised as a chick.
If you are not accustomed to the vocal sounds real chicks make, let me introduce you: peep. The peep can be a very quiet, I’m sleepy, peep, a screaming, I’m hungry, thirsty or cold, peep, or a frantic, You’re stepping on me you other chicks and I was sleeping and now we’re all stampeding to the other end of our box and falling in the food, peep. If you get my drift, the only thing normal chicks do is a monosyllabic peep.
Enter: Happy Feet. When we bought the chicks at Buckley’s, Allison told us she thought some of them look like little penguins. Turns out she might be right. Happy Feet sings at all hours of the day and night, twitttttttttttterrrrrrrrrrrr, chirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp !!! (Note: To reproduce the sound you must roll the t’s and the r’s). It’s a happy sound, if it were reserved only for waking hours. She even twittered out in perfect falsetto, “rain drops keep fallin’ on my head, they keep fallin'” at o-dark-thirty. Consequently, I’ve decided one of three things.
1. Happy Feet is a chicken mixed with a spring robin.
2. Happy Feet is a GMO chicken: Genetically Modified Opera singer.
3. Happy Feet is really a rooster.
Third of all, and the final earth shattering awareness I had whilst ill, we have the perfect trashcan for losing your dinner in. The plastic can is contoured with both a forehead and chin cutout, perfect for burying your entire head, should that necessity become apparant. It also comes complete with, if your head is a couple of inches wider than mine, ear hangers. To the delusionally dehydrated mind, the handles, as they are otherwise known, could be placed over the ears when the emergency can’t-make-it-to-the-toilet situation arises, which would free your hands up to white knuckle the nearest floor.
In other news, our 7-year-old is fully recovered. I’m on the mend. The house is still in its original location next to the barn. Happy Feet did not become fodder for the wildlife and continues to entertain us during the day and cause us to spout expletives at night. The trashcan has returned to its previously scheduled programming and no ears were damaged in the process.
Until next time,
– The Goat Cheese Lady