After Michele’s untimely demise, I was hesitant about getting another chicken. I began to see them as less of a cute feathery friend and more as a traumatic experience strutting around on two legs. Because ultimately, we all know how this story will end.
Not Paul. After a few days of mourning, he was back to this:
and was quick to inform me that chickens are flock animals so it is NOT OK to have only one. Especially in winter, when they need each other to stay warm. I told him so long as he’s comfortable pulling the head off of the next sick chicken we get, it was OK with me. (The truth of the matter is, Paul loves having chickens. A lot. And I do too, the yard would feel a little empty without them.)
And so, after a trip to the Memorial Day chicken coop tour….
…and a talk with the woman selling year-old pullets, meet Brunhilda.
And yes, that is where she perches, up on top of the coop. But the reason for that is another story for another time.
Brunhilda (Paul’s default name for her, pronounced “Broomhilda”….yay, German) is a Swedish Flower Hen, which just sounds adorable.
Unlike Romy or Michele, however, when you walk into the coop, she doesn’t come running up to you looking for spinach. She runs away. Fast. And when you do finally get a hold of her, she will fight and squawk and flap to the DEATH. So putting her in the coop at night is a two man job that usually involves a rake, at least one chicken getting stuck in between the slats of the fence, and takes an average of about 10 minutes.
Coincidentally, the two things progressively becoming most difficult for me to do are: 1.) move quickly, and 2.) bend down to pick something up off the ground like…oh, say, a chicken. So for me, this whole bedtime process is rapidly approaching humiliating. I am kind of beginning to suspect that Paul says he needs my help for entertainment value.
And according to some meganerd magic site that Paul sent me, this is what the mythical Brunhilda looks like.
Welcome to the ranch, B.