Photo: Karen Roe, Flickr Creative Commons
I've been having the urge to write the past few days, but it's like that drive to go eat when you know you're not really hungry. I've wanted to write, but I don't have anything to really say. It's like whatever chemical that flows when I've got a great idea that needs to come out is flowing, except that it's some sort of misfire, a rush of adrenalin that comes from nowhere while clipping your toenails. It's frustrating.
My last hen was killed by a raccoon this week and I don't know if I'll be restocking or not. I know it's a raccoon because they leave behind a mess for you to clean up. The foxes take the whole thing with them. The birds just go missing. The raccoon just beheads the damn thing, eats a few choice internal organs and leaves the rest behind, covered in fire ants and swarming with flies and starting to stink the heat of a south Georgia September for me to clean up. I've got that order in to Sand Hill Preservation for their fall special but that's not a sure thing. If they don't have enough eggs laid this month, they'll be returning my check. If I sent in my order too late to make the cut, I think I may be getting out of the bird hobby. I hate keeping them penned up, but where I live is just a little too wild for the domestic chicken and I'm too domestic to be able to defend them.