Alien Invaders

One month on, and we've lost our little chicks as we knew them. Gone are the cute little feet, the soft touchable down, and the convenient palm-sized proportions. In their place are a couple of large, awkward, screeching monsters who continue to gobble food and produce copious amounts of manure but have yet to bring forth a single egg. We've lost track of who's who except for Katie-hole (she seems dead set on establishing dominance). Rar!

The old blue bin just wasn't cutting it any more, so the little monsters have been transferred to a larger cardboard abode, complete with roosts. They're learned how to use their wings so we make sure to secure the roof after every visit.
In theory the weather is supposed to get warmer, and once that happens and the rest of their feathers come in, the chickens have quite the castle waiting for them. Carl spent many long, hard hours constructing the best outhouse ever, complete with movable run. I contributed by sketching on the crooked moon.

That's the news from the funny farm. I've finally purchased seeds, so who knows, we may even have a garden at some point. Oh, the joys of urban homesteading.

Three, Seven, Two, Four, Hike!

Note: Due to a technical snafu this post is from last week.

3, 7, 2, 4: those are the numbers, respectively, of how many weeks we've had the chickens, how many weeks left in massage school, how many papers I have left to write for pathology class, and how many miles I ran today. Doing some constructive procrastination sounds way better than continuing on about peripheral neuropathies and thoracic outlet syndrome.

First, the chicken update: the coop and run are finished and waiting for the weather to warm and the chicks to finish sprouting their feathers. They're getting into that awkward adolescent phase where the last remnants of chicky fuzz are being replaced by random tufts of feathers, and it's getting difficult to tell them apart (the Fury is still the loudest by far). Their feet are the size of dinner plates, their legs are getting bigger by the minute, and they're getting fast. They're also figuring out how to use their wings, hence the lovely impromptu roof we've put on their box to keep them from wandering. We brought them outside the other day to test out the run and coop, and they promptly christened it with several chicken deposits. I guess that means they approve.

Next up: massage school. This is also related to the papers in question, which I'm currently avoiding. We're way past halfway and things haven't slowed down a bit. There's a little less than two months left, and on one hand everyone can see the light at the end of the tunnel , and on the other hand that tunnel drops us back into the big wide world from whence we came, with board exams to pass and an actual profession to begin. Funny how that works.

Papers: see above.

Last up: running. As my mother pointed out to me, I'm not really built for running. My sister got all the long lanky grey hound genes, while I'm designed more along the lines of a Himalayan pony (short, squat, and stubborn). It's mostly the stubborn part that keeps getting me out there, although there's the added incentive of avoiding more squatness than necessary. This morning I ran alongside Lithia Park and watched hordes of parents with pastel-colored children in tow, lugging baskets full of loot and vibrating with sugar. I had entirely forgotten about Easter and was a little confused by the plethora of cars parked along the road, until I saw all the balloons and Sunday best outfits and excited munchkins.

I remember being a kid and hunting for eggs in the house, where my siblings and I each had a designated room with exactly the same amount of eggs and prizes (my parents were all for keeping the peace). Some years we'd get all dressed up and head up the hill to spend the rest of the day with my dad's relatives, eating ham off fancy plates and hunting for more eggs on the extensive grounds. The best part was when we found eggs left over from the year before - I hear in some countries they're considered a delicacy. We just enjoyed the gross factor.

The Chicken Chronicles

I am a person of slow, careful consideration. Any decision I make has to be deliberately thought out, with every possible consequence weighed and balanced. There's a fair amount of good old fashioned fretting, too. Carl doesn't operate in this manner. He is a man of decisive action and sweeping passions, so that when we received permission to raise chickens from the landlords on Thursday, he had the fuzzy little buggers in his hands by Sunday. I hadn't even had a chance to read the chicken books I had checked out from the library. So here's our next grand project: four Rhode Island Reds named Erica, Brendina, Katie-hole, and Carla a.k.a. The Fury. Here they are at five days old (they were born March 31).

Bubba wasn't sure what to make of the new additions.Carl has discovered that he is the chicken whisperer, and is dead set on training them to be the perfect poultry.

I'm not quite sure what to make of them, either.My little sister Sarah was in town for a lightning-fast visit this weekend. We got to take a long walk around town, check out a Native American pow wow, eat delicious food, and yes, play with chickens.

Our little feathered friends are good for hours of entertainment.

Look how big they've gotten! Ten days old and growing by the hour. Carl wants to know when they're going to start laying eggs.

In other realms of life things are perking along just fine. We had our first clinic with the public at school and it went really well - it's fascinating to experience the sheer variety that humanity has to offer, because every body you get underneath your hands is a whole world unto itself, with a unique history, geography, and climate. We've finished kinesiology (which I rocked), and have started new classes like neuromuscular therapy, pathology, and business. Fascinating, frightening, and titillating, to be sure. My race training is also going well - I've worked my way up to five whole miles. In this town you plod uphill for half your required mileage, then turn around and run downhill to complete the course, or vice versa. It seems to be effective in countering the upper body bias of massage therapy.