Little chicken yogis.

We’ve got these chickens and I adore them. They don’t lay eggs; they are apparently past laying age. They both got some kind of chicken-sicky immediately after we got them which resulted in my going out twice a day for two weeks in the snow to squirt medicine in Bicken’s eye and also to pick chicken boogers out of both of their little beak-nostrils. With my fingernails. I got chicken poop on my yoga pants. This morning, I went out and hand fed them Christmas cookies after cross-country skiing around our property a few times.

This is Bicken. She has some… mental struggles, shall we say.


This is Chicken Bicken. She is a bit of a bully, although, to be fair, I’d probably push sweet Bicken around a bit myself if the only avian conversation I was exposed to day in and day out was a chicken who couldn’t figure out how to get back into the coop without a ramp.

Once, a couple of weeks ago, they really needed some more straw, as the temperatures dropped very low. We’re sort of slashing our way through the dark with this whole poultry thing, and the ramp Ryan had added at my tearful insistence after I had continually rescued Bicken from her hunkered down spot under the coop at night due to her inability to figure out the whole hopping-into-the-coop thing had frozen to the ground. This was a problem because I couldn’t move it to lower the door to throw the straw in. The only LOGICAL answer was to cram straw through the small chicken entry door and shove it to the back of the coop by squeezing my head and one arm into the chicken sized opening (see below) while Bicken and Chicken Bicken pecked at my face and zipper. Like a little chicken ‘Thank-you’! (It was only a little disconcerting.)

Relaxation comes in different forms: yoga, a good book by the fire, old lady chickens. No judgement.

Merry Chicken Christmas to you and yours!
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