Wowza; has life gotten away from me this summer. This has been a season of change for my
family between moving, unpacking, work and a new school- we have hit our
all-time high on the busy meter. And we all know how well I do with
change. (Little fun fact about me- when
I was little, my parents bought a new couch.
I was so upset about getting rid of said couch that my parents had to
move it out of the house in stages. I
shit you not, first from the living room to the dining room, then to the porch
and then to the yard. And at each
station, I would sit on it and cry. Wow-
attachment much? Looking back- this
should have been an indicator to sign me up for therapy. I guess we missed the early boat on that one.)
Any who- we have some introductions to do from this summer:
We now have three chickens named Prime, Delta and Other Chicken. (Two were
named after dinosaurs in a Jurassic Park movie and the other one was named out
of Chase’s pure laziness. That chicken must be the middle child.)
Ya know,
now that we live in the semi-country we can welcome farm animals into our
family (luckily for Cory, I am allergic to most farm animals so I think the
chickens will be the extent of our farm).
Every day we get fresh eggs.
Usually blue/greenish eggs and some brown. The boys love to snatch them from the coop
and bring them to the house to get washed and then to sit in our fridge until
we run out of Doritos and corn dogs and have no other choice than to eat
Revermann farm-fresh eggs.
Our first night with the chickens was a little traumatic-
Prime (that asshole) got out of the box we brought it home in. We spent the next hour chasing a frantic
chicken around a yard full of pine trees with a snow fence and a fishing net. I’m not going to give myself props by letting
you know that I’m the one who ended up catching the chicken, but if you are
wondering- Cory wasn’t the one who caught it.
So anyways, our new neighbors think we are straight up hillbillies who
should be medicated- heavily medicated.
Lastly, Trixie.
Trixie
is our geriatric dog that we are fostering (to adopt) from the Tri-County
Humane Society. She is 10. I’m a wiz with math so I did the numbers for
you; she is 70 in dog years. Why didn’t
we get a new puppy, you ask? Because
nothing is sweeter than a grandma dog who already loves children (even toddlers
who ride her), “snores” even when she is awake (try explaining an old, wheezing
dog to your 6 year old) and is semi-house broken. (Cory, I threw in the
semi-house broken part for you because you know I like to give her the benefit
of the doubt and insist that our toddler peed on the carpet and not my sweet
grandma dog- who probably needs Depends.)
On a side note- Chase will not let me refer to Trixie as a “grandma dog”
but instead likes to call her a “teenage dog.”
Whatever dude, when she turns grey next week and starts knitting you
socks, I will force you to call her a grandma dog.
On a side note: One day Trixie decided to break into the
chicken coop and attacked our chickens.
Delta and Other Chicken ended up missing a few feathers, but I think it
was Chase that was traumatized from the situation. He ran into the house yelling to Cory that,
“Trixie is killing our chickens.” Cory
ended up saving the chickens and no one sustained any serious injuries, but
Chase spent the next week randomly telling Trixie, “We don’t kill our
family.” I hope he keeps this in mind
when he is having urges to skin me.
So here we sit, at the end of our first summer in the
country, with 4 new family members. I
wouldn’t have it any other way.
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