Chickens, dogs, and a working Sunday

The neighbors behind me have chickens. When I say behind me, my cottage sits as close to their property line as allowed and two windows from my living area look directly into their back yard. Amy came yesterday to separate a bromeliad and take some of the pups and said they are suddenly, unexpectedly the owners of three hens, abandoned by a renter on her father’s country property. Jason has been busy for weeks converting a playhouse into a henhouse, but they weren’t quite ready.

This morning, Sophie discovered the chickens—not sure how. She couldn’t see them, I couldn’t hear them—maybe a dog’s sixth sense. But they required her to go barking to the fence line and then come in barking frantically at me, so that I’d understand her need to get to those critters. Later, I looked out the window and saw a small gray cat sitting outside the fenced run for the hens, staring intently and not moving. So cute. I rather like the whole idea and hope they get lots of fresh eggs—such a treat. For now, according to Amy, the hens are traumatized by the move and three days of abandonment, so they’re not laying yet, but hope springs eternal.

My brother and his wife have chickens on their ranch, and I’ve learned a bit about fresh eggs from them. When sister-in-law Cindy wants to give me eggs, she goes to a wood chest, not refrigerated, in the garage and hands them to me with the warning, “Be sure to wash them before you use them.” I’ve seen this online too. In Europe, they don’t refrigerate eggs, but neither do they subject them to all the cleaning processes we do here which washes off their natural protective coating. Left in their natural state, they will keep a long time unrefrigerated. And nothing tastes better.

Stormy night here. It was dark by 6:30, but the storm was a long time coming, with lots of distant thunder rumbling. Now at 8:00 it’s raining but not pouring. Thunder is still rumbling, and the air is much cooler. I aril have the French door open to enjoy that rain smell and the cooler temps. Sophie, always nervous about thunder, is right next to me.

My brain is exhausted. I didn’t have a way to church this morning, so stayed home and worked. Got an incredible amount done—wrote over a thousand words on my work-in-progress, wrote a guest blog, proofread my novella and one other for the collection Sleuthing Women II: Ten Novellas, due out digitally in September at a bargain price. I’ll post details here when it’s available.

Think I might spend the rest of the evening in frivolous reading. Maybe my bedtime novel, A Pain in the Tuchis. If you don’t know what a tuchis is, you might not enjoy it as much as I am.