themnfarmwoman

Let me introduce myself:  My name is Tattletale. I am a  golden Buff Orpington chicken, and the one who calls herself a Farm Woman gave me that name because I always have my feathers ruffled and I run squawking to her every time something goes wrong in the coop. The other chickens don’t like me very much, so I keep to myself when I’m not following her around.  You would think there is not a lot of drama way out here in the country, but I tell you, it can be like a soap opera.  First of all, five new young women have joined our flock. These young chicks think they are “all that”, too, with their cute little clucks and pretty feathers on their tails.   I try to keep to my own business, but lately I’ve noticed that old Baldy the rooster has been checking them out. He hovers around, fluffing his feathers. He gets upset and won’t come into the coop at sundown unless they are all safely in.  Mark my words, he is thinking about sharing their roost, if you know what I mean.  He is probably old enough to be their grandfather, too.  Speaking of roosters, Big Boy has two wives. All the girls are cackling about it.  He has been seen finding bugs and worms for the two redheaded divas, June Carter Cash and Maybelle Carter. That Farm Woman thinks she has to have all these cutie-pie names for all the chicks around here. I don’t know how I ended up with a name like Tattletale because  I just hang around here scratching the ground, looking for bugs, and minding my own business.  Anyhow, back to Big Boy. Now, keep this just between us, but he’ll be stepping out on those two before long, and I know that for sure.  That guy sure has an eye for the ladies. The biggest drama in the coop in the last couple of weeks is that Old Mum has finally gone broody. She’s old enough to be a grandmother, but she has decided to be a surrogate and is sitting on eight eggs in a nest about four feet off the ground. Now mind you, I wouldn’t dare say a word, but who does Grandma think she is, Octomom? The Farm Woman, who thinks she knows more than Mother Nature herself, tried to move the nest closer to the ground, but you should have heard all the fuss. Old Mum clucked and moaned and made such a ruckus that after an hour, the Farm  Woman moved the nest back to where it was. She checks on it so much you would think she had laid those eggs herself.  Now you know and I know that despite her name, she is no more a Farm Woman than Hillary Clinton.  She came from a city. She can’t grow rhubarb. She let the rain wash all the labels off her plants so doesn’t know if she planted a pumpkin or a watermelon or one of the four varieties of squash she decided to try this year.  Her farm dog is a chihuahua that looks more like a weasel to me, and I don’t like weasels much at all.  While REAL farm women are busy with the haying or pulling weeds or baking bread, she fills the jacuzzi tub, pours a glass of wine, and we don’t see her for a long, long time. Not that I’m saying anything, mind you.  I just hang around here scratching the ground, looking for bugs, and minding my own business.