Ester's Feathers

Dinosaur Junior. Ladies and gentlemen: meet Butters. On Saturday I went with Chicken Vickie to go look at some Buff Orpingtons. I was happy to have someone else navigate the dreaded East Side. We found our address, finally, and a chicken coop, poorly built, at the back of a mobile home. We picked out our chickens, and the guy grabbed them by their feet and hung them upside down, which (supposedly) sort of sedates them, but Vickie's chicken was the first and it was clear from the sounds she was making that he was hurting her. I pointed out the chicken I wanted, and he seemed to do a better (less painful) job of it with mine and then we were off.

When adding to a flock, you really do see the darker side of chickens. As Ester's status is the low girl, it made sense that she would move in and assert herself more aggresively than Beulah. In this shot, the thugs are advancing on poor Butters, who had me in tears at some points, in her comedic uber-hysteria. Ester was so completely put out, her voice even changed. Suddenly, she was a 60 year old with a lifetime two pack a day habit. I started calling her Thelma Ritter. Last night as she was advancing on Butters, I aimed the hose in her direction and she ran off protesting all the way, like an outraged child. I found her in the front, muttering. Really. Muttering. I made a big show over how bee-u-ti-ful her feathers were, and she was placated. While we were over on the evil Eastside, we went to the feed store and got new straw and stuff, and on Sunday I mucked out the coop. It smells really good now. That won't last. So, another lovely weekend. I am loving this summer.