I love reading about folks’ experience of keeping chickens: the ups and downs, the funny and the banal. This episode is brought to you by Amanda Rae, a chicken keeper with a wicked sense of humour.
I stepped outside this morning and found Cricket and one of the cats, Chaz, sitting side-by-side on the railing like they were waiting for their Uber or Door Dash order. both staring dead at me. Not moving. Not blinking. Just judging.
Do you know how humiliating it is to be silently judged by a chicken and a cat before you’ve even brushed your teeth? I’m standing there half-awake, hair shaped like a tumbleweed, coffee in hand, and those two look like the last thing they expected to see was me. Cricket’s giving full ‘bless her heart’ energy, and Chaz has got that deadpan ‘she’s still alive somehow?’ face.
I said, “Good morning” like a polite person and immediately tripped over the porch step because apparently gravity hates me. Coffee flew. Chicken screamed. Cat levitated. I did that awkward half splits that only happens when you’re both injured and embarrassed, and somehow managed to baptize myself in medium roast.
Cricket took off clucking like I’d confessed to war crimes, and Chaz just sat there licking his paw like he was pretending he didn’t know me. I’m now sticky, bruised, and emotionally defeated, while they’ve resumed their meeting about how I’m not fit for unsupervised life.
Anyway, the zoo’s thriving. I’m the problem.
Chad’s out here lookin’ like he just crawled out of a dust covered birth canal straight into a midlife crisis. This is not a dust bath. This is a spiritual purge. This is a man who said screw it, buried himself alive for five minutes, and came back looking like he fought a dirt demon in the dark and won solely because the demon got tired.
He strutted out of that dirt hole like a hungover bachelor on Sunday morning who just remembered he has brunch plans and no clean clothes. His feathers are coated and his tail looks like a rejected broom. His whole lil’ body is coated in enough dirt to start an entire damn landscaping company. The dust cloud around him makes it look like he just walked away from blowing up a sketchy warehouse. No emotion or remorse. Just rooster swagger and poor decisions.
The hens saw him and pretended they had errands. They looked at him like, “Boy, absolutely not, he smells like an abandoned sandbox and looks like he lost a fight with a ShopVac”. Chad does not care. Chad has seen things. Chad has transcended. Chad is filth now.
He shook himself out like a busted Dyson and sent half the yard into the atmosphere. Then he stomped off as if he owned the place, kicking up dust like he’s trying to summon ancestors or piss off the animal founded HOA. He is already planning to walk right up next to the house and get that dirt on every clean surface possible because that is who he is.
Chad is out here living his grimy, chaotic, feral little life and honestly, he’s my hero.
I was out here today in an apron that smells faintly of chicken dust just whipping up a big batch of clover and oat grass soup for the chickens. I was feeling good about myself ‘cause I really thought I was doing something wholesome. Everything was going smooth until I realized my two quality control inspectors had arrived, Chad and Rooster Cogburn, standing at the bowl like Gordon Ramsay and Guy Fieri on a barnyard budget.
Cogburn, bless his overconfident little heart, had already been beak deep in the mix, yanking out bits of grass and clover he had deemed unacceptable. His ass took one look at a wilted leaf, gave me side-eye and flung it like he was saving the flock from mediocrity. He looked me square in the eye like he was asking, “What the hell is this, peasant work?”
I swear he judged me so hard my ancestors felt it. Chad just stood there supervising, head tilted, giving off heavy ‘we’re gonna need to see your food safety certification’ energy all the while he was nodding like, “Yeah, she definitely didn’t wash that.”
By the time I got it all loaded up, which was everything I had left, a bunch of it had been eaten, half was flung across the yard, and all of it was thoroughly critiqued by the asshole feathered board of quality control. It’s like living in a barnyard episode of Hell’s Kitchen, minus the paycheque, plus a lot more clucking.
Asked for help with A.I. to create a cute pic of me and the hubby sitting on a chicken. What I got was me with tits so big they need their own zipcode, an ass that defies gravity, and legs that stretch into next Tuesday. Like… ma’am, I asked for a chicken, not a thirst trap on wings.
We both got a new plastic face to match the scene – like a budget Barbie and Ken stumbled into a barnyard fantasy. Meanwhile, my man? Mostly untouched. Just sitting there like he’s the Colonel himself, proud of his genetically enhanced hen loving wife.
At this point I don’t know if A.I.’s trying to flatter me, objectify me, or recruit me for a poultry-themed OnlyFans. Either way… cluck it, we ride.
Many thanks to Amanda Rae Hartley for sharing her stories and photos. Check out her Facebook page for more laughs
If you have a story to share drop me a line using the ‘contact’ button on my homepage.
“If you can’t laugh at your chickens, they’ll do it for you.”
Bitchin' Chickens 
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