Tag Archives: chickens

Forget the chickens, you just might be a redneck if….

….you have a doggie door that looks like this

dog made doggie door

It seems that once we installed the invisible fence the dogs have developed excessive boredom with the great outdoors (now sans exploration) and long for the comforts of our home.

The little rat decided to take matters into her own paws and create her own doggie door.

I warned you to Let me IN or BAD, BAD things would happen!!!

For once the destructive power house was innocent and we captured her bewilderment and surprise at the newly created doggie door.

What the…how the…when…?? I didn’t do it!!!!

Now AS IF chickens free ranging in our home (this is no longer occurring) and dog made doggie doors isn’t redneck enough, take a gander at our son-made swimming pool.  This baby is guaranteed to provide hours of fun on hot summer days as our youngest demonstrated.

A boy and his dog. This is the redneck life!

Who needs a pool when you have a 50gal rubbermaid container that previously housed chickens?????

Ahhhh, this is chill.

I don’t know about you but (other than being a little grossed out – you should see WHAT that dog rolls in!) the swimming pool tub is giving me the frontier vibe and I’m suddenly thanking God for my showers and running water.  I’ve heard my grandpap tell stomach churning stories about having the disgusting misfortune of being the last person to use the bath water after his umpteen brothers bathed.

Gross.  I think I’d be tempted to forgo the bath and remain in my filth… At least it would be my own.

Speaking of filth, my chickens are calling and the little neighbor girl is squealing (I can’t tell if it is with fear or delight).  The run is still not finished and they are free ranging through the neighborhood.

Time for this redneck in denial to round ’em up and then maybe take a dip (sans dog) in the pool when I’m done!

Buffalo Farts. A name too fun not to revisit.

I’m on my way to the landscaping store to get rocks for the chicken coop run and had to look up an older post I wrote.  I did not want to repeat an extremely awkward experience that I had there a couple of years ago and required the correct language for my purchase.

I’ll post more about the coop run update and the rapidly growing mutants (i.e. chickens) but while I’m working on yet another hot and humid day (I seem to have a self torturing pattern of doing this) you can simply….

….Read on.

July 7th 2010

I, with the mandatory assistance of my young helpers, are embarking on a shed clean-out project and it is taking place on the HOTTEST days of the entire year.  Why?  Because when I get an idea I just have to move on it.  Plus, the tale-tale odor of death and decay along with killer African Bees (I’m sure of it) swarming the shed hinted to me that some TLC was in order.

We have made some interesting finds…from old stuff we forgot we had to critters in various stages of anatomical decay.  This project has become a huge biological lesson.  My kids are quite the experts at sniffing out “death” and have been known to loudly shout “I smell death” as soon as they get that familiar whiff.  Although, shouting this sentence truly becomes awkward when the elderly are around.

For the sake of those with weak stomachs I will not post the pix of the maggots having dinner ‘with’ the mouse.  But here are some more appropriate finds…..

The killer African Bees

The ‘rat pile’ mouse nest my husband fosters
Awww, now this little baby bunny we can deal with                                                                                                                                                                   

After experiencing heat exhaustion and dehydration I had to make a trip to the local landscaping store.  Mr. Pavlov thought it would be a great idea to lay down a rock floor in the shed to help with moisture and really show some shed TLC.  I was apprehensive when he told me the type of rock I wanted to ask for was called “Buffalo Farts.”

Buffalo Farts? [I echoed].

Yes.  He absolutely assured me that this was indeed their proper name.  But still my gut was twisted…somehow I could not envision the landscaping business advertising Buffalo Farts to the manicured lawns of the rich and famous. I can just picture the conversation:

Hey Bob those are really nice rocks you have there.  What are they called?”  Bob (having great difficulty): “Buffalo Farts.” 

But ok, I get that I am a landscaping ignoramus so Buffalo Farts it is.  I confidently walked up to the counter in my sweat pouring state and declared,

“I need a half ton of Buffalo Farts.” 

As awkward as this may sound, the real humiliation came with the extremely long pause, followed by the quizzical looks, and ultimately the deep belly laughter from big burly, tanned men.  Big burly, tanned men who attempted to repeat my statement but were unable due to their fits of hysterics.

The moment turned into a prolonged comical session of partially spoken sentences – “A half ton…..A half ton of Buff…..Buffa…Buffalo Far….half ton of Buffalo Farts” followed by more hysteria while I stood in fake confidence self consciously soaking the floor with my sweat.  Once they regained their composure and questioned the ignoramus they determined that what I actually required was #3 gravel.

Yes, #3 gravel has a nice ring to it and I can totally see Bob (fictional guy from my imagined conversation above) proudly proclaiming,

“Well, thank-you it is #3 gravel.” 

Buffalo Farts or #3 gravel…same thing yet solid proof that “A good name is more desirable than great riches” Proverbs 21.

You know you’re a redneck when…

Alas, the evil pink eye bug has left our abode.  I think the chickens and all their filth scared it away.  You know, germs like it at the top of the filth hierarchy and these chickens have that market cornered.  There was no room for promotion for Mr. Pink Eye so he left to find another clean home to infest.

How are the chickens you ask?  Ok, because YOU asked I will fill you in on all of the latest happenings but don’t palpitate, I promise not to make this a chicken blog.

I think pictures (even crappy ones taken on my cell phone) speak volumes so here ya go:

These dirty (notice the film of dusting on the light? That's mild people) suckers are escaping!

Oh yes they are!  They fly now and the big 50 gallon rubber maid container is an easy escape!

Now, do you notice that there are more chickens than the originally planned eight?  Why?  Well, you see I have become quite the chicken whisper during this experience.  And I just knew (who cares that it is near impossible for the experts to determine) that some of these babies were roosters.  I just knew in my knower that they were.  One look in their beady eyes and I was screaming “I have at least 4 roosters!!”  So I did what any insane reasonable person would do.  I went out and bought 6 sex links (guaranteed hens) for a grand total of 13 chickens (I know 8 + 6 = 14 not 13 but I could only get 7 chickens to start with not 8 so I’m doing the right math but thanks for your concern regarding my IQ).

Here’s another voluminous photo:

Now how did that little sex link escape? If she can do it so can I. I'll just use this water dish as a stepping stone to success!

After waking up to free ranging chickens in my HOME I decided it was time for Mr. Pavlov to get his cute little rear in gear and build me the run.  We have the coop but just needed the outdoor run to complete their palace.  He obliged (and called a friend to help…Thanks JIMMY!) In the meantime, I placed a crib rail over the container halting all future free ranging.

The palace. Sorry to the neighbors down wind of the palace 🙂

Even Diva constructionista is at work! When she works you know she must want 'em chickens OUT!

I’d rather allow the chickens to free range but I’m quite sure that a neighborhood lynching would occur so we decided to build a nice sized outdoor run.  Plus the girls (roosters free to good home) would most likely get into these…

My precious garden beds getting ready for planting!

The weather has not been cooperating and the run is not finished.  Yes, that means the stinky chickens are still in my home although I am contemplating other facilities.  On the positive side, one these things leave, my home will seem imaculate!  I cannot even begin to describe the layer of pentrating dust they create.  It gets everywhere and on everything…think dry wall and you have an idea!

How do I cope?

Drowning out dust, filth and smell one sip at a time!

And Mr. Belvedere helps me cope with the realization that I am becoming a redneck.  You know you’re a redneck (maybe even Queen redneck) when you have chickens free ranging in your home.

I need another sip.

Spring has sprung and so has my brains!

I think my battle with the evil pink eye super bug has left me mentally compromised. If not the wicked bug then it was the massive amount of eye drops I’ve absorbed but either way, I’ve gone bananas.  And if you need proof just look….


In case you can’t make out the little specks those are chickens people, fowl feathered friends.  Somewhere along the way I decided that I wanted farm fresh eggs but didn’t exactly want the farm.  So, much to my neighbor’s dismay, I settled for eight super charged egg laying peeps, four of which we got last week and the other four are due to arrive this week.  I figure eight layers should keep my food devouring kids egged up and happy for awhile.  And when they get sick of eggs? Well, I’ll come up with some creative recipes or shove eggs down their throats.  Whatever works.

I tried to be a considerate suburbia neighbor and bought these peeps from a place that could guarantee these downy babies would be hens and not annoying roosters.   We’ll see.  If any should happen to be roosters did I mention I have a retriever bird dog?  Just KIDDING (not about the dog but about the fate of poor rooster).  I’m sure I’ll find a farmer who would be happy for Mr. Roaster to take up some table, I mean, yard space.

The coop is up and ready to go except for the outdoor run.  I have been nagging gently asking Mr. Pavlov to finish the run because these peeps are growing quickly and pooping a lot!  N a s t y.  I’m told the run will be completed this week which, is a good thing considering how filthy these egg layers are.

While we wait they eat, sleep, poo, pick, poo, flap their wings, poo, flap their wings and actually fly, poo, peep, poo, poo, poo and they are still small.  If the amount of poo is any indication of what I can expect to come then I am in WAY over my maximum lifetime poo limit. Plus we still have four little poo makers to come.  Yikes.  Let’s hope they produce as many eggs as droppings and then maybe we’ll call it even.


As we await the other four peeps and their completed home, they bask in the heat of their red glo lamp.   This photo was taken just minutes after I changed their bedding…wanna take a guess what a few hours looks like?!?

Didn’t think so.

I’m going to collect my brains now.

An afternoon of basketball, ghetto and chickens

Child number dos  has some amazing athletic ability.  As overused as this may sound, he is a natural-born athlete.  He truly was ‘born this way’ considering he entered our world trying to bungee jump with his umbilical cord.  At 6 months old he almost decapitated me with his Nerf ball.  During his little league years he managed to leave a third-eye-goose-egg on Mr. Pavlov’s forehead practically rendering him unconscious and nearly neutered several nice young males who offered to play catch with the “cute little boy.”  He was and is an animal.

The animal getting ready to make contact!

This year he decided to play basketball for the first time.  It came as no surprise to us when he owned the ball after one touch.  My head was spinning as the coach explained several moves he wanted the players to execute.  But dos was not phased at all.  He nodded his head and ran the dribble, spin, dribble, switch maneuver effortlessly. 

Mr. Pavlov and I watch the games proudly with our heads held high.  Mr. Pavlov seems to hold his head a little higher because he claims the genes obviously “come from him.” But Mr. Pavlov and I are quiet spectators.  Other than a “Good Job Dos!”  or “Nice!” we sit and admire the talent.  However, as we have experienced from our years on the side lines, not all parents embrace this reserved approach.

We have met our share of obnoxious but recently we met a parent who makes obnoxious seem enjoyable.  From the beginning of the game she screeched and screamed with such force that the tiny structures in my inner ear began to reverberate.  By the end of the game Mr. Pavlov and I had full-blown tinnitus. We were feeling as if  the Jr. High Marching band had slammed our heads between their symbols.  Our legs were wobbly, our vision blurred, our stomachs were entertaining nausea and we each had our own terrible version of a migraine going on.

However, the abuse didn’t cease there.  Not only was she a screech but also WHAT she was screeching made her our sport spectator winner for the most ghetto parent  E V E R! 

For example, she yelled “Get yo man” repeatedly when it was zone defense, not man-to-man!  A noble soul, who was hoping to get her to shut her trap (I’m sure of it) informed her the team was playing zone defense.  This information would’ve sent me under the bleachers gagged and muzzled daring never to show my face again but not screech.

She went off like a siren with woot-woot, dat’s what I’m talkin’ bouts and whoops each time her children received a foul.  We even got to feel the bleachers shake and threaten collapse with each of her celebratory pelvic dance grinds.  She yelled “GOOD BLOCK” when her child mowed down another player football tackle style and encouraged her child to “get da rebounds” even if it meant crossing into another zone and knocking out a team-mate in the process. Her children were most concerned with pleasing her and were willing to draw whatever amount of blood was necessary to accomplish each task required for the approval of screech.

As painful as this behavior was to endure I prepared myself to let it go and never speak of it again….UNTIL….I heard….screech…sound off during this 11yr old, co-ed basketball game with…. 

“G U A R D   D A T   H O!!”

and just incase the entire suburb failed to hear her….

“G U A R D    D A T   H O!!”

Again, maybe, just maybe someone was not paying attention so she felt compelled….

“G U A R D  D A T   H O!”

We, the human parents in the gym, were in a state of shock.  I kept my head straight but strained my eyes horizontally in an attempt to connect with Mr. Pavlov and child number uno.  I’m sure it was this continued ocular strain that sent me off  the migraine cliff.  I also attempted to locate child tres because he is known to repeat such reactionary adjectives just for giggles. I could just imagine tres joining screech in perfectly blended vocal harmonics of “Guard dat ho!” 

Thankfully, tres appeared not to comprehend the revolting screams but seemed sufficiently entertained by her pelvic bumps and gyrations.  Tres performing a spectacle of himself with his crotch as the star entertainer was far more favorable to me than the alternative.

Slowly and ever so slowly, I turned my head  to see if I could find “dat ho’s” parents.  I wanted to prepare myself for the direction of the attack!  Since I don’t actually know “dat ho’s” parents, I tried to locate the individuals wearing the most offended facial expressions or exhibiting the strongest physical reaction.  I was unsuccessful in locating the parents because EVERYONE was wearing looks of silent horror. No one moved.  No one spoke.  We sat.

And that is when the realization imploded from within that Mr. and Mrs. Pavlov were not the only chickens attending the game.