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Of Chickens and Constipation

Posted Jun 15 2009 6:30pm

In response to Dreamdust's comments on a post a few clicks down, I offer up these observations. Oh, before I forget go see Dreamdust's site, funny family pictures. Trust me, they will give you a smile.
Brief warning, for those of you in the tea and crumpet and 'oh, so veddy proper set' best move along. Things are going to get ugly, we are going to discuss poo and then chickens.
She, Doow from Dreamdust, observed that constipation and chicken related incidents are common among bloggers. After thinking about it, I believe she's right. Dooce, one of the first blogs I started reading regularly non-chalantly mentions her failure to um... you know, be regular. Even mentions her daughter suffering through the same affliction, which really isn't fair because the child is barely 2 or so and when she grows up and finds out her bowel habits were internationally announced she is so not going to be pleased. Believe it or not, I was more shocked at the candid mentions of failure to poop than anything else that woman has posted on her site.
As I read more and more blogs I found that it's an accepted post subject. Bloggers around the world are bound up. I think it's bordering on epidemic proportions. Bloogers Failing to Poo. Wonder how long before Oprah covers it? And after that, you know it will be just a short time before some drug company or another comes up with a pill just for the long suffering constipated blogger. Something with a relevant name like Blogged Release tabs. Of course it will have side effects, bloating, rash, dizzyness, some fatal side effects and ironically, constipation.
I am sure this is a horrible thing, the failure to go to the bathroom on a regular and timely basis. I just can't empathize. I have Crohn's which makes me a regular flow through conduit. What goes in must come out and quicly too. Very efficient. I can tell you where every bathroom is in every place I have ever been in the past 3 years. I am on permanent radar lock when it comes to restrooms. I can find them in the most out of the way, inconspicuous areas. I even know which stores have two or three sets of them.
I wonder at the majesty of not going for three or four days. What must that be like? No interuptions. No desperate, cramping, pain-filled, dashes for the loo. Just calm and quiet. That must be bliss. Or not. Judging from the looks on the faces of the constipated people in the commericals, it is not comfortable.
So, anyway, long story short, I can't share in the blogger constipation society. Now if there is a Blogger Bowel Flow Through Conduit type of society please get in touch with me.

But.... I can take full membership in the chicken community.
I grew up in charge of three dozen, give or take a chicken or two, chickens. I never really wanted to be in charge of them. I really didn't. My mother, who for some odd reason, thinks farming is fun and loves being able to live off the land, which is a grand and wonderous thing. It really is. The woman can store, preserve and can anything and if famine or disaster befalls us, I'm heading to her house.
When I was about 10 years old we moved to a house with enough land for a huge garden and some chickens, turkeys and ducks. My mother proudly presented me with a box of peeping fluff balls and told me how they would grow up quickly and produce eggs for us to eat and sell and they would be in my charge and I was to be 'Chicken Queen' of the henhouse.
They were cute, and helpless and fuzzy. I was entranced. They were so tiny they were hardly a bother at all.
Did you know they only stay cute for about 3 days and then they start to develope squinty mean faces, and sharp little beaks and sporadic feathers and they do it in a blotchy, pell-mell manner and one day you walk in expecting fuzzy little peeping things and instead you get some manged out shrieking feathered things who demand blood.
I spent years tending chickens. Shoveling out the coops, feeding them twice a day, melting out the waterers in the winter, locking them up at night, collecting the eggs, which they don't want, but they don't want you to have them either, and learning that chickens are mean.
Yes, they are. They are terrible. They will peck each other to death, they eat their own eggs, they attack kittens. Kittens!!! They will attack and eat them!!! They ignore you unless you have food. In short they are like terrible little brain damaged sociopathic siblings that won't go away.
My mother, however, loved them. She gave them ALL names and she insisted they had personalities. (Yes, they did have personalities. Terrible little twisted and mean personalities.) That they were curious, and sweet and fun to watch. Fun to watch???? You know what the rooster used to do? He would pretend to find something good to eat. He would cluck and croon and make happy little noises while pecking at the ground as if he had just found the biggest, juiciest, most wonderful caterpillar in the world. Soon enough a hen would come over to see if there was enough to share and as soon as she got close, "Wham!" he'd jump her bones and then take off chuckling. The rooster was a rapist. I tried to explain this to my mother but she laughed. She said it was actually very clever. Clever??? What kind of things is that to tell your daughter? This has scarred me for life. Any male offers me a juicy caterpillar or other toothsome treat and I'm not sticking around. I'm wise to those tricks.
So, one extremely cold night, in January, when I was about 16 years old and I came home from work and went to go into our downstairs bathroom. My plan was to get to bed quickly because I had school in the morning. I pushed on the bathroom door. It opened about two inches and then stuck. Looking down at the floor I noticed there was hay sticking out of the door. At that moment the demon rapist rooster let loose with a crow that would have rung the bells with Notre Dame. I slammed the door shut and stared at it in disbelief. The rooster was in the bathroom. In my bathroom, in my HOUSE. With some hay. Then I heard the clucking. Oh. Dear. God. My mother had put the chickens in the bathroom. Yes, I knew straight away that my mother had done. Trust me on this.
I went upstairs to my mother's room where she was lying on the bed reading a book. She asked me if I had found the chickens in the bathroom. I said they were hard to miss. The rooster crowed again. My mother explained that 'Percy' was upset so we should expect some noise. She then told me that the temperatures were going well below zero that night with a very bad wind chill and she was afraid the chickens would die so she stuck them in the bathroom with a lot of hay so it wouldn't make a mess.
Funny, sticking chickens and lots of hay in a bathroom at the same time is my definition of mess but to each his own.
My eyes are closing and I'm ready to go to sleep, and, my friend, if you have read all of this I am sure your eyes are closing too and you ready to drop off. That's me, the nation's answer to insomnia. But you didn't know I had multi-uses. So, I'm going off to sleep. I'll tell you more chicken/duck/turkey stories later.
Sweetest of dreams and may you wake to 20 inches of snow on the ground and hot pancakes on the table tomorrow. With syrup, two types of sausage and bacon!

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