Chickens in the Tool Room

The chickens have done things to the inside
of a fertilizer-spreader that will
give me nightmares for years to come

Nancy is out of town, and, no, the "mouse" has not been playing.  The mouse has been working.  And whenever the mouse looks up from nibbling, during a well-deserved cheese break, all it sees is more work ahead.

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."

No.

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.