The Events of 1/13

It had already been a tough week.

Enjoying our ski vacation in Mammoth, we were hit with the news of the terrorist attacks at the satirical paper, Charlie Hebdo, in Paris.

I had once purchased the URL, chickensacrifice.com, thinking I would do some sort of satirical online publication. I never did.

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It was about 4 a.m. on the morning of January 13. I was returning in a daze from the bathroom to my bed when I heard a strange whimpering sound from outside — something like a cross between a baby crying and an owl. More

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Chopping Wood

Splitting axe with curious chickens

Splitting axe with curious chickens

It was a few weeks ago, I guess, that I first began to experience it — feelings of inadequacy as a man.

I was in the kitchen cooking some dainty little dish or other when my pal Ernie stopped by. We hugged and had just began to chat when my wife came out of the back.

“Ernie,” she said, “Can I ask you a couple things?” More

Random Thoughts for a Tuesday

One of the new little chickens in our coop died today. Something happened to its legs, which for chickens — like horses — is pretty much a death sentence.

New chicks (and two Guineafowl) at the water bowl

I’ve gotten used to a chicken dying occasionally — they get stuck in strange places, the coyotes get them, etc. — so it doesn’t phase me so much. Less blasé, however, am I than the chickens themselves. They just sort of step over their dead friend and continue about their business, casting each other glances every so often as if to say, “What’ya suppose is the matter with Larry?” More

Black Monday

We returned Monday afternoon from the obligatory Memorial Day pool party/barbecue tired and sunbaked — a family sluggish in the hangover of four barbecues in four days, beginning with the optimistic pop of a pale ale bottle opening Friday afternoon and ending with the fizzle of a yawn 72 hours later.

It was as I was tending to my afternoon duties around the house that I first noticed an ominous sign out on the property: an explosion of white feathers down by the garden. More

Afternoons with Henri

I often get asked a tough question, in regard to either our pig Henri, or one of our dozen or so chickens. “So,” the person will begin… “Are you going to… you know…” In the beginning I didn’t know, and was aghast when they would finish their query.

“Eat them!??” I would wince. “They trust me.”

With the chickens it makes more sense. They’re not very smart. And after a couple years, they stop laying and then live another 7 or 8. But I wouldn’t be able to slaughter them, and even if I had someone else do it, I’d be wondering which one I was eating. More

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