A Chicken Miracle.

A miracle has occurred here in Edison. And I'm only half-joking.

Yesterday, Wes let the chickens out of their coop to wander around the place (read: poop all over my yard.) Usually, they make their way back to the safety of the coop as dusk approaches. Well, yesterday only 3 of the 4 came home. And they were huddled in the doorway, clearly discussing something of concern. We were missing a girl - a pretty, fluffy, well-mannered Barred Rock. (a.k.a. Plymouth Rock; black and white in color.) Sad. Not good.

I was in need of some fresh air. I had caught the most recent cold that Buck the Preschooler had to offer, and I'd been cooped up (pun intended) all day on the couch. I'll walk around the block, I said, to look for her. What I found was a suspicious smattering of black and white feathers in the alley, but no girl. When I reported this, we clucked and worried and surmised that likely a bird of prey had taken her. They are abundant in these parts, and particularly the bald eagles are starting to hand around this time of year. A dim fate, but, we hoped, a quick one. Well, we'd lost many a girl in the past. This spring we'll definitely get some chicks. Its been a number of years since we've filled the ranks. Yay chicks!

Well. This morning, Wes informed me that we had a chicken miracle on our hands. For, in the coop were 4 girls, including our missing Barred Rock. She looked to be missing a good deal of feathers, but otherwise hale and hearty. Where on earth had she been?! A night of carousing? A vision quest? A desperate tussle with some dog that led her to hunker down out of sight till she had her wits about her to return home and somehow get back in the coop? We'll never know. Welcome back, girl. Lay some eggs.

In other news, today is my 40th birthday.

Hounding

I want an Irish Wolfhound. My birthday is coming up, so I've been snuggling up to the husband and suggesting gifty things here and there. Tonight, as we watch the Saints play the Falcons, I snuggled up and told him in low tones that I have a suggestion. I suggested we get a wolfhound. I heard the following:

"I would rather adopt a kangaroo."
"I would rather adopt a Somali warlord."
"I would rather adopt a mink farm."

So then we discussed that the real solution involves us owning another home, where I would live with Buck and the wolfhound. This home would be a large stone cottage (read: small castle) on a good chunk of land (not too much, though), abutting some woods. These things could totally exist around here. And I would live there and go for trail runs with my well-tempered wolfhound. The rest of the while, the hound would defend us and/or sleep by the fire. Done.

I'm not sure where husband will be. He'll be here in Edison, I guess. He'll come up the road to visit. UNLESS! OMG, unless the large stone cottage were in France! Somewhere in the Dordogne, perhaps. Close enough to a train station so we could jump on the TGV to Paris, where we'll also have a pied-à-terre. Of course, the hound would not want to be in our tiny apartment in Paris, so we'll need someone who can keep him company at the cottage when we're not there. Shoot. OK, so I need an old, grumpy Frenchman to live there on the property with us. I won't be able to understand him very well, but he will be devoted to the wolfhound, and will sneak rich meats to him. (wolfhounds shouldn't have a heavy-protein diet). Wes will like the grumpy old Frenchman because they will sit around and occasionally drink too much wine together. Ok. I'm going to go update Wes with this more elaborate plan. Wish me luck.

Today, driving in the car, Buck: "It's a sunny day on Earth."

Me: "It is."

Buck: "Yeah! and when when nighttime comes, the darkness will come from outer space."