As egg production of my chickens has started to slow down, it is time to restock the flock. And @TacticoolSasquatch1776 decided she wanted in on the process. Now, she has zero experience with being a prepper or farmery (if that’s even a word), what so ever. But, I’ve heard nothing that wasn’t bird related for two days, now.
We make our journey down to the local feed and seed store and tell the guy what we want. I’m vaguely familiar with the young fellow and he happily procures us starter feed and shavings for their temporary boarding in my spare room and gets us 10 Golden Comet pullets to add to my existing birds in Fort Chicken (a 40’x40’ block foundation on my property).
While I’m networking/marketing my business to the guy, the box containing said fluff balls, somehow, came unsealed and, upon my reentry into the car, someone already has a chick in her hand. That’s right, didn’t make it out of the parking lot before she is elbow deep in baby chickens and has already named one of them “Duck.” (You can’t make this up. She named a chicken…“Duck.” This lady s broken.)
Since returning home, I haven’t seen my girlfriend. She has locked herself in the spare room with the new chickens. I know she’s still alive, because she’s texting me…from the next room.
And because I, briefly, opened the door (to verify life) and got yelled at as though I were trying to take a ring from a hobbit.
I’m concerned for my safety, her mental health, and the future of my relationship. The woman has gone chicken crazy.