We’re getting chickens.
Technically, Grammy and MP are getting chickens, but we live within 500 feet of one another, so what’s Grammy’s is ours. (Yes, I am THAT neighbor.)
This isn’t an Easter thing — Grammy’s wanted chickens (and their eggs) forever, and this Christmas, Poppy finally surrendered and surprised her with a bale of wood shavings. So, seeing as spring is just around the corner, this past weekend the three of us drove just up the road (Not just ANY road. It’s dirt. Which earns Country Romance Points.) to the Chicken Lady’s house.
The chickens were absolutely lovely, and soft, and unbelievably docile. MP was charmed.
So was I … until she slipped in chicken poo, got up, and revealed a giant green skid mark up her leg. It took all the strength I had to let it go, when all I wanted to do was strip off her clothes and hose her down. It’ll be interesting to see how the OCD/Chicken Poo Combo shakes out. (I may need Foolery‘s help with this one.)
I foresee shoes. Lots of shoes.
Left on the front porch.