In a previous post, I promised an explanation of my sudden outburst about chickens and goats. Well, here goes....
It all started when we lived in a townhouse in the suburbs of Dee-Cee, with a fenced-in postage-stamp back yard that The Husband used to mow (very occasionally) with a weed-whacker. Exhibit one:
We are now north. We will soon (did I say "soon?" sorry. soon-er or later) be moving out to The Lake where it will be perfect for a goat. Says he. *snort* (says me.) I usually choose to ignore this bit of uncharacteristic craziness from The Husband. And then? About a year ago, he cooked up another idea, in addition to the goat. Chickens. And my father is encouraging him. He's even considering it himself! What is this madness?!
Now, let me back up and clarify. I think Small Pines and others are fab-o for raising chickens in the back yard. Philosophically I'm in agreement with the whole idea. I would love the fresh, I-know-whence-they-come eggs. I wouldn't mind scattering some feed once or twice a day.
But livestock is hard work. (And hard work and I aren't currently on speaking terms.) You have to provide for livestock when you leave for longer than a day. You have to get out of bed when you're sick and tend them. You have to muck out their living areas. You have to be sure to live upwind of them. You either have to plan to eat them or be prepared to care for them when they're past their benefit to you. And I have taken a firm stand against my involvement in any part of the slaughtering process. Not that I object to livestock being slaughtered. I just don't like to be in the presence of offal. Call me delicate. Just not fond of entrails.
Therefore, I'm heartily encouraging my father in his backyard chicken-raising scheme, much as I encourage his gardening.
And Bob? NO CHICKENS!!!