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Archive for the ‘Chickens’ Category

Dear Readers:

Occasionally, I am fortunate enough to have a post from a guest blogger. Today is my lucky day (and yours too)!

I present to you the story of goat yoga, a strange phenomenon sweeping the nation. Sounds like something I would try. Alas, Bingo Lisa tried it first. Here is her account (edited slightly for blog voice and flow).

I’ll be back with a Words With Friends dating update later this week.

Love,
Beth

 

This kind of yoga really got my goat*
Guest post by Lisa W.

I’ll admit I was a bit excited about being invited to a baby shower where there would be goat yoga. I’m not a big fan of women-only baby showers. Unless I’m sure there will be alcohol, I usually avoid them.

My friend Trina, my 6-year-old daughter Cali and I drove out to the sticks in Ridgeland, South Carolina, to celebrate our friend Jessie and her baby boy’s approaching arrival.

I’d seen pictures of goat yoga online and all of it looked happy. People holding poses and nuzzling baby goats or having them on their backs.

Preggo Jessie (left) and a family member pose with four-legged friends.

Dorothy planned this event. She could not be more thrilled.

The yoga was supposed to be outside, which I now know is ideal. However, the weather was misty so the yoga class was moved inside into our host’s sunroom. We unrolled our mats with anticipation for the nearly ceremonial releasing of the goats. Oh, rabbits too. And chickens.
However. These animals are not potty trained. My expected serene yoga event turned into a literal shitshow.

The releasing of the goats quickly led to the goats releasing their bowels.

So much poop.

I attempted child’s pose and lowered my head per the teacher’s instructions. A baby goat then ran full speed at me and tried to head butt me. I realized I couldn’t let my guard down for a second.

Here’s Lisa on high alert.

The actual yoga lasted maybe five minutes because everyone spent the time either holding the goats, picking up their lovely presents, or trying to keep them from eating our mats.
We passed around tiny shower cocktail napkins to pick up nuggets and sop up pee. I joked that this was great training for the mom to be. If only those goats had worn diapers.

The goats show Jessie how she got pregnant, in case she didn’t know.

It seemed like most attendees had a great time.

Sara (left) and Trina appear to be having a blast.

Cali loved it too. Me, not so much.

Cali pats the bunny. Meanwhile, Lisa reports that her face looked like this the whole time.

I just couldn’t. I was counting the seconds till the end of goat yoga.
Bye Felicia.
When I got home, my husband Rob and I had this convo:
Rob: How was goat yoga?
Me: There are three yoga mats in the bed of your truck that belong in your work dumpster.
Rob: That fun, huh?
Never again. Thankfully, I needed a new yoga mat anyway.
Lisa

*Don’t blame Lisa for that headline. It’s all Beth.

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Dear Trish the Chicken (RIP):

A former graduate student of mine (now friend) sent me a link to this article today, and I immediately thought of you. And missed you, of course.

You would have made a great gang leader. You had a strong personality and did not suffer fools. You were never too chicken (har har) to go anywhere. You also were very loyal to me alone, much to Eddie’s chagrin.

I feel sorry for the little fox in the story, but the idea of a chicken gang is hilarious.

Anyway, I hope you are having a ball tearing up the landscaping and pooping everywhere in the great coop in the sky.

Yours always,
Beth

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Dear Trish the Chicken,

It’s been eight years since your untimely death. I miss you on the reg, but never more so than yesterday.

I went to the Northwest Georgia Poultry Club show in Calhoun, Georgia — an hour northish of where we live now.

By myself.

For no reason beyond curiosity.

I did feel out of place, though. For example, I drive a Volkswagen, not something like this:

 

Also, I wasn’t wearing camouflage. (An oversight, really. I do own plenty of camo and a general affinity for rednecks.)

The show made me miss you so much, and also miss having a house where we could have chickens. Look at your beautiful brethren!

This looks like some kind of dog!

I thought the sign said “bitchen” at first, and I thought, “Yes, that is a bitchen’ chicken.”

Look at this handsome specimen!

She’s got legs, and knows how to use them.

What a beautiful bird.

This face!

As I am mostly a “city girl,” it’s hard for me to understand some customs. For example, why is one of the judges wearing a Clinique consultant coat and the other is wearing an apron?

Let’s review your skin care regimen.

The apron on the guy on the left says, “Judge.” It makes me fear for the losers of the competition.

The contestants were vying for these trophies. And perhaps the hand sanitizer as well.

And the title of Champion Cock.

These were the sights. You can imagine the smells. Here are the sounds:

Finally, thanks to the onsite Tabernacle of Praise, I was able to say a little prayer for you.

Anyway, it was an interesting Saturday morning.

And I still miss you.

Love always,
Beth

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Dear people who ate at Chick-fil-A today simply because Mike Huckabee declared it “Chick-fil-A appreciation day”:

I’m impressed: You decided you felt strongly enough about something that you got motivated to show support. Let’s ignore the fact that you got a meal while doing it.

Many people thought they were just showing support for “Christian” values. It sounds noble and all, but that reasoning is flawed. The God I know doesn’t discriminate. It’s “love thy neighbor” not “love thy straight neighbor.” But you can support whoever you want, whatever business you want, even if they donate money to hate groups. (Are you sure you want to give your money to a business that gives money to groups that actively persecute people? Really?)

The law, however, has to be fair to everyone — gay, straight, Christian, atheist, born here or naturalized. And the laws in this country regarding marriage are discriminatory. I’ve written about this before, so I won’t shove it down your throats again.

The reason I’m writing today is to ask you to do one small thing: Spend the same amount of time you spent in line today (or getting to the line in the first place) thinking about how you would feel if your government told you that you couldn’t marry the person you loved. Separate church from state. Please.

It’s 2012. Why are we as a nation doing the same kinds of things whites did to blacks decades ago? Didn’t we as a nation learn anything? Saying “You can’t do this because you’re not like us” just can’t be the way we do things today. It’s just not right.

So enjoy that chicken sandwich. I hope it was worth it — that you said what you REALLY wanted to say with your money.

And I respect your freedom to spend your money wherever you want, and your freedom to make a statement. In turn, I hope you respect mine.

Not eating “hate chicken,”
Beth

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Anyone can post postcard-perfect pictures. (And yes, I will too.) In the past two days, though, I’ve been more interested in capturing critters.

A puny French version of the late Trish the Chicken

Puny Trish has a friend.

A literal version of "pigeonholed"

 

From birds to beasties (the praying mantis, that is, not me)

There's a whelk on that there limestone! (Say that with a Southern accent, please.)

Flowers? No.

Snails!

Apparently, if you put them in saltwater, the snails leave their shells. Then you put them on salad. Um ... yum?

Un escargot grand

Un escargot grand avec des amis

Next post: flora of France

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A fowl day

I guess we are not meant to have chickens.

Jeanne has gone to that great coop in the sky.

It appears something attacked her in the coop (not Maggie this time, as Maggie passed away last October). Perhaps a possum or raccoon. Jeanne put up a fight, but didn’t make it.

Once again, Eddie is the one who found the carnage. (Hmmm … there seems to be a theme emerging.) He called me on my way to work, while I was already upset about something else:

That’s some jury-rigging right there. Not pretty. This is what happens when you are driving a Volkswagen and can’t swerve to miss a piece of truck tire in the road. And why Eddie hates my car. (He was driving.)

Eddie also hit a deer a couple of months ago. So Progressive loves us, I’m sure.

It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day for me. Worse for Jeanne, of course. RIP.

Eddie says that’s it for chickens. Yeah, well. He’s said that before.

I’ll bide my time until March, which is the start of chicken season.

 

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Chicken run

Jeanne is doing fine; thank you to those who asked about her well-being. She has been laying about five eggs per week. Jeanne and I have formed a close bond, and she comes running when I call her (like Trish used to). She likes me. Right now, she likes me!

Eddie? Not so much.

Jeanne has been pecking at the window screen on the side of our house, making Eddie angry. I asked him to feed her this morning, and this is the text message I received:

Yes, my 6-foot-4-inch tall husband ran from the chicken. Ha!

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