Inez van Lamsweerde & Vinoodh Matadin

 

 

Our house has turned into a chicken hospital. Two prepubescent hens with leg and joint troubles are sharing a large dog crate in our dining room. And two nearly picked-to-death teenage roosters are wandering that same dining room wondering how they can get laid through the dog crate bars.

Yes, you may well wonder, we have issues with chicken poop. Sometimes my darling wife steps in it and shrieks at me while I’m tring to watch the Olympics and eat my cheetos. Yes, the maremmas wander in at bedtime and eat the chicken poop like it’s dripped ice cream. And yes, we have a cat that tries to scooch dust bunnies onto fresh glops of chicken poop so it doesn’t offend her little kitty nostrils. But hey, we are never bored. No, we are never bored.

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