Loved this USFS (United States Forest Service) street sign I walked past on a recent visit to San Francisco. Clear Channel: boy on top tubing/boy on bottom watching fireflies. Clear Message.
It’s no secret that I’m crazy about chickens. Been there, established that. But did you know that I also carry a torch for their free-flying cousins? Yep, birds of any feather tickle my fancy. Chickadees, woodpeckers, sparrows, even raptors and ravens inspire a kind of wide-eyed wonder in my heart, and I suppose that qualifies me as a birdwatcher. Throw in my trusty old pair of binoculars, and I might even be a bona fide “birder” (FYI: bird was first used as a verb in 1918).
When it comes to my chickens, I’m a mother hen who doesn’t mess around. My girls have the run of the place, and I don’t take kindly to predatory folk prowling around, plundering nests, and ruffling feathers.
But every “Head Hencho” knows there are as many ways of tending a flock as there are chicken poops under a roost. You have your movable pens, laser deterrents, traps, and high-voltage hot wire. Plenty of armed and able farmgirls shoot to kill without batting an eyelash.
And then there’s another approach, one you might not want to try at home.
You’ve seen ‘em—the “gone fishin’” bumper stickers:
><x> hooked for life;
><x> good things come to those who bait;
><x> salmon—the other pink meat;
><x> hook ‘em and cook ‘em;
><x> be back dark thirty;
><x> my other wife is the fishin’ life. (I made this last one up myself.)
Wherever fish are bountiful and bitin’, bumper-sticker philosophers keep themselves busy reeling us in.
“Get out” is what I WON‘T be saying to my 104 pound, hair-shedding Great Pyrenees dog, one of two white (and often muddy) farm dogs that are supposed to be my OUTSIDE doggie-poohs. (I do love these girls. Pyrenees are sooooooooo gentle and stoical and kind and well-behaved.)
Well, one of my Pyrs (peers) pulled off an INSIDE job when she broke her foot. And because she’ll be in a cast for six weeks, I let the pampering begin.