|The chickens have done things to the inside|
of a fertilizer-spreader that will
give me nightmares for years to come
I will now abandon the mouse metaphor, which is the problem with a good metaphor, once you grab hold of one, it's hard to let go.
In particular, I dread having to deal with the tool room this weekend. I pray that sweet Nancy, who reposts these for me on her Facebook page will not peruse this particular blog too carefully. Owing to a chicken-coop malfunction the other week, a predator got in and attacked one of our birds. I moved them into our tool room. I repaired the coop, but the attack victim is still recovering, and then came an unseasonable cold-snap so I have left the birds in situ.
It has been over a week now. The chickens have made themselves quite at home. When you visualize "home" for a chicken, perhaps you think of fluffy clean straw, an egg picturesquely perched in a little hollow, like a pie set on a windowsill to cool. Some soft downy feathers, mayhap. A needlepoint reading, "The cluck stops here."
This is not how chickens view home. I will not explain what home is like to a chicken. Suffice to say, it is a place of horror. The chickens have done things to the inside of a fertilizer-spreader that will no doubt give me nightmares for years to come.
Sunday, I will be working in the utility room with a scraper, bleach, and a hazmat suit.
And Nancy, if you do read this, I'm only kidding. The chickens have left the tool room immaculate.