It's been a week since the chickens arrived.  The husband managed to build them a chicken tractor that allows them to peck at the grass  during the day and go into their little house at night.  It is called a chicken tractor because technically you are supposed to be able to move it around to new ground every few days so the chickens have fresh bugs and grass to eat, but this sucker weighs about 500 pounds and doesn't move so easily.

We manage to push the tractor up by our blueberry bushes thinking the chickens can eat all of those Japanese Beetles that are devouring my blueberries.  I wish I hadn't been preaching the benefits of organic produce for the past several years because I would love to spray the shit out of those little bastards and watch them drop dead on the ground. We are determined to do things organically though  so we spend hours every evening shaking beetles into a bucket of soapy water where they soon die. You have to do it in the evening when the Japanese Beetles are too tired from a day spent eating  blueberries and fornicating to fly away.  The husband loves this pastime.

But I digress.   The hens are not so keen on the beetles but our cute little rooster gobbles them up.  Yes, I did say cute little rooster (insert cock joke here).  Unlike those bitch hens, he is a sweetie who likes to hop over and let you pick him up.  The boys love to hold him and kiss him which kind of grosses me out, but it does give me joy to see them experiencing their first popcorn bowl moment on the farm. It makes me feel good about the decision to move them up here.

Yesterday I went up to check on the chickens.  I see the two big hens and the cute little rooster pecking away but I don't see the two smaller hens.  I get very excited thinking they are in their nesting boxes producing some delicious eggs for me.  I gingerly walk around and open the lid of the nesting box just as James Dean comes running up the hill.  We are both greeted by a horrific sight.  The two little hens are dead.  Blood and feathers are everywhere.  I want to vomit and James Dean is apoplectic.  Did I mention he is a REALLY sensitive kid?

The screaming soon brings the other two kids running up the hill to see carnage.  Now I have three hysterical children to console and a blood bath to clean up.  This isn't exactly the popcorn bowl memory I had wanted, but I am sure this is the one that is going to stick in their heads for the rest of their lives.  Good job Mom!

Luckily two of my friends come over with their kids and they help me push the chicken tractor down the hill and flip it on its side.  After 20 minutes, the three of us figure out how to work the staple gun and wrap the entire chicken tractor in chicken wire and staple it down.  The thing now looks like a maximum security prison, but nothing is getting our surviving chickens.  I now have a new respect for the two big hens that are left.  They must have put up a good fight to stay alive.  Who knew that life on the farm would be all about death.