This is the fourth installment from my guest contributor, Heide Royer, AKA The Puerto Rican Poultry Princess. If you’ve read her previous posts you might notice a consistent thread woven throughout her tales of chicken keeping: being the victim of projectile eggs or poop, and lots of it.
It’s amazing when we look at all the things that can take us down as human beings. I mean from the beginning of time it’s been plagues, disease, accidents, natural disasters, murder, war, famine, suicide, and other maladies aside from old age. Right now we are engulfed in a global pandemic and who really knows if we are going to win or lose that battle. Time will tell I suppose as it does all things, but because of this I truly appreciate and value my loved ones a bit more than I would have prior to all of this madness. Even if said loved one takes an epic dump in my mouth.
This will fall under the “accident” label in my potential ways of dying list, and in my defense, I did think I was going to perish at the time.
Let me open the scene for you.
Hot barn 2020. I was going in to check on my chickens and a broody hen that had recently hatched out four little yellow bebes. I had her in an XL dog kennel because I didn’t want her to get jumped on by the main flock or put her littles in jeopardy. She was the first hen I had ever let hatch out her babies naturally. Prior to that I was Dr. Heid, madly folding my hands in front of my chest, salivating over the ten Tractor Supply incubators full of fertile, rare breed, chicken eggs. I was getting ready to build the power chook army I had always dreamt of, but when my hen went broody I thought, why not? We could always use a few “Hen-erals” to run this feathery regime.
Mom and newly hatched chicks were doing well. She was scratching around the thin layer of pine shavings, trying to teach them how to forage and peck for food. This simple act of nature was so innocently sweet and cute. The hen was incredibly engrossed in her scratching and once she reached the black, plastic bottom I felt badly for a minute, knowing there would be no plump worms or grubs to feast on, right up until she hiked a Jurassic size chicken sh*t football right into my face.
If you have ever had a broody hen, then you know they really don’t get off their eggs very often, and when they do it’s to quickly drink or eat some feed then diligently go back to laying on their love orbs. They also don’t defecate like they normally do, which it seems is every other minute and a half it. This builds up and builds up until she finally erupts like a New York Giants fan receiving news that Eli Manning was retiring, releasing all the bull$hi^ that’s been pent up forever. Sometime during the day she had laid her poop plunder and now it was kicked right….onto…my mouth.
I had no idea what to do. I wanted to scream, but kept my lips pursed tightly for fear of poopage passing through. I had an additional plop spot on my right eye where another bomb had landed and was dangling from my eyelash.
This is how I go. If it’s not death by massive coronary event than it’s whatever disease infested, blood and platelet destroying bacteria that’s slowly infiltrating my mouth, pores, and eye stems. Maybe the synthetic eyelashes will help slow that process of physical annihilation down, since clearly I’m in a state of shock and will not be able to save myself. Should I scream for help?? Let’s try.
You try to scream without opening your mouth.
Yeah, no aid came.
Finally, I bunny hopped over to the door (don’t ask me why I did this, my legs were working fine) and looked around to see if there was anything I could use to wipe this disgusting mess that was so inextricably thrown onto me. There, a leaf!! I picked it up and was getting ready to wipe my face when I noticed there was a FREAKING MILLIPEDE on it!!
Oh HELL NO!
Problem was, this was the last straw, and my tightly sealed mouth could no longer hide the horrified poultry princess that was underneath. I screamed. And screamed. Wiped my mouth with my hand. Blinked rapidly to try to get the eyeball poop stash off, and waited.
Green. Black. Brown. White. Every color that isn’t on the rainbow was now on me and I was hightailing it to the bathroom.
I managed to get washed off with a heavily concentrated solution of Dawn liquid soap, rubbing alcohol, and Old Spice body wash (it was my son’s bathroom), walked out smelling like a Las Vegas gigolo, but felt fairly confident I was cleanish. I then went upstairs and took a shower AND a bath, because who knows what poop spores got on me that I couldn’t see.
I waited to get sick. Didn’t get sick. Even googled symptoms of chicken feces exposure and ingestion. I wasn’t going to be a ticking time bomb after all. No sides effects. No long term harm.
I’ve just learned to talk less sh%#.
Oh and that uncontrollable urge to yell that too. That might be a thing.
Love and quiches to all, and to all a good night, The Puerto Rican Poultry Princess.
Bio: Heide Royer is the artist behind Heidinmyworld of Art. Her creative passion lies within the animal world and is expressed through her visually compelling artwork. She is also an aspiring writer telling stories of her chicken farm life in a new book entitled “All Cooped Up – My Life with Chickens During A Pandemic”, filled with crazy antics and a lot of fowl play. It’s sure to bring laughter to any poultry loving household.
Featured Image: Pet Poo Skiddoo