Making Steve Irwin proud

Our new apartment is in a basement.  This is good because it stays cool.  This is bad because there's more. . . wild life.  I'm learning to care for these creatures though like Marsha, the spider above the washing machine, and the feral cat from the deck I affectionately call Kitty-kitty.  Often the Kitty-kitty is usually proceeded by a 'good', 'nice', 'stay', or 'please don't eat me!'  But for the sake of blogging, I'll stick to plain ol' Kitty-kitty.  A couple weeks ago our upstairs neighbors asked us to watch the critters while they were out of town.  I was happy to oblige.  This job entailed feeding Kitty-kitty, changing the litter box (which Paul agreed to do for me), and gathering eggs from these creatures:
 

I've had some irrational fears in the past, but this goes way beyond rational.  It's survival!  Everyone said that these birds are total chickens.  Just walk in the hen house and they'll scatter.  Picking up eggs should be a synch.  LIES!  These chickens like human flesh.  When I approach the pin they immediately perk up and file out of the house, slowly pecking toward me as they squawk madly.  They do not 'bock bock' all cutely like in movies.  That is another lie.  My ankles feel vulnerable thinking about them.

So. . . I asked Paul if he'd gather eggs.  He is the man.  It's his job to do yucky and scary.  I volunteered to distract the poultry outside so he could sneak into the house without incident.  This worked masterfully, but one evening Paul decided he could gather eggs on his own.

That was a really bad idea, bless his heart.

He opened the door to the hen house very slowly.  Most of the animals were out in their little yard.  He entered and closed the door behind him.  Two eggs sat precariously on the ground and he picked them up with his left hand.  That’s when they caught a whiff of man scent.  One entered through the little bird-sized door. Then a second and third and fourth and fifth.  The ferocious fowl began marching towards him.  Their cries were piercing and shrill.  "Doom on you," they shouted.  He waved his foot out at them, which deterred them momentarily, but they were not frightened. Paul bolted for the door and continued to nudge them with the side of his shoe hoping he could escape without letting any chickens out.

How he made it out alive, I'll never know.

You may be rolling your eyes right now.  I understand; I use to feel the same.  So I had a “friend” of mine film a documentary to help you appreciate the trauma we’ve experienced.

Complete with deleted scenes:

These clips and more can be purchase on DVD on November 31 at a gas station near you!

($79.99 plus shipping and handling)

This week the chickens went to the "Special Place" probably to become someones stew.  They will be greatly missed, but their memory will live on. . .  in my nightmares.  He he, just kidding.  I really do miss them and all their little quirks.  I miss the aggressive red hen, the self-mutilating spotted hen, and the hen that walked around with poop on it's back for a week or two.  I can't wait for spring when our upstairs neighbors get some new chicks!  They will be so adorable.