Ranging

When I saw this picture, I snorted into my iced tea. Doesn't Pete look like he's saying "HI FROM CHICKENLAND! Lunches served daily!"?

Introducing the chickens to the open range has been one of the biggest joys of the past two weeks. It's terrifying, in a way, the same way letting your cat outside is terrifying. Something could happen.

But, I remind myself, chickens were meant to range. They were not meant to live in a plywood box and eat nothing but scratch and the occasional overgrown zucchini. They're terrific foragers; they eat bugs and snails and grass and dandelion seeds, and from an ecology standpoint, it just seemed right for them to be out in the open. What's a chicken life worth if it can't fulfill its chicken-ness?

Genevieve is ranging, too, though she's been a lone chicken so long she's sort of forgotten how the whole flock concept works. She spends time with this flock, but it just as likely to turn up following around our neighbors' chickens, or me working in my flower garden, or Pete taking a sunbath. Also, Genevieve has terrible mealtime habits. It's hilarious, but also something we're trying to discourage: she will fly into your lap, or perch on the arm of your lawn chair, while you eat your lunch. Bad chicken! But oh, funny funny chicken, too.

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