Chores
To some, it would be easily described as a chore. But the mere connotation of something obligatory, and worse yet, something dreaded is so far from my experience that I can only call it a chore in jest. I stop by the coop with a breakfast of oats and mealworms for the girls. It's yet too early for the automatic door to have opened, but as I talk with the girls from outside the coop, I hear them jump off the roosting bars and even peck at the door. Knowing the eager parade of feathered excitement that awaits, I happily open the door myself, and chuckle at the onslaught of chatter and energy from seven crazy chickens. The oats and mealworms are greatly appreciated and quickly devoured. I open the window on the coop from inside the run before making my departure to go around to the coop and the remaining windows. When I step inside the coop, Della comes in from the chicken door. Abandoning the oats and mealworms is no small deal, and I know even more certainly that I have in t
