Diary #405

Raising pullets (they’re already too big to be called “chicks” any more) has been like having a box of tiny clowns in my laundry room; last week they busied themselves running around their now-too-small enclosure, banging into one another while peeping loudly and scratching so energetically into their bedding that I had to clean their water and smooth out the cedar shavings 5 or 6 times a day.  So though it was fun having chicks again, it’s also good that they’re now old enough to live in the henhouse.  So on Saturday I drove out to Sunset with them; they’ll stay inside the henhouse for another three weeks, to get a little bigger and stronger while the weather gets warmer, after which we’ll open the door out to the poultry yard and they’ll be able to go in and out like grown-up ladies.  Four of them are Rhode Island Reds, which in my experience tend to be early layers; we should start seeing small eggs from them by September or maybe even earlier.  The other six are sex-linked hybrids, so I’m not sure exactly when they’ll start; however, the guy at the Tractor Supply said they were bred specifically as layers, so by autumn I should be enjoying plenty of fresh eggs.  It’s a small thing, I know, but it’s one of the things I’ve missed by living in a city again.  The eggs, the animals, Grace nearby, a respite from the racket of sirens that Seattle seems so enamored with (more than any other city I’ve spent much time in)…these are the little things, like dear friends, good sleep, slow mornings and well-defined seasons, which help me to maintain my mental health.  And with the War on Whores being as awful and bloody as it is right now, I’m going to need all of the help I can get.