The Minnesota Farm Woman

My hens, with the exception of a few angry squawks and pecks at each other, seem to get along fine, but the roosters are fighting again, or perhaps I should say still.  Not the little banty roosters. They are nice old fellows who rarely fight.  It’s the big strutting I’m-the-boss-and-you’re-not boys that are fighting.  They fight over territory.  They fight over food.  They fight over women.  I tell you, with all the arguing and fighting that has been going on, I feel like I’m living smack-dab in the middle of Washington D.C.! A Boy Named Sue (named because my Sweet Sue turned out to be a boy) is a warlord. He is big and strong and he knows it. He never bothers me, because sometimes I carry a big stick…..er….a broken fishing pole in my hand. I’ve never touched any of my chickens with it, but if I carry it in my hand and say “Jump!”, A Boy Named Sue will ask, “How high?” Or at least I think that is what he would say in chicken language. Big Boy used to be the boss, but Sue beat him bloody more than once, so I relegated Big Boy to the barn, which is an old garage adjoining the coop. I may have disrupted the pecking order, but I am soft-hearted and don’t like to see an animal hurt.  I don’t think he is too unhappy there.  He has food, water, and an occasional conjugal visit from the girls.  Big Boy seems to think that I am a giant chicken and is madly in love with me.  I know this because when I let him out of the barn every day, he makes romantic little clucking noises and offers me a lovely dinner of bugs and worms.  When it’s time to go in, I tap  my trusty  broken fishing pole on the ground. Big Boy says “Yes Ma’am!” in chicken language and hightails it into the barn.  I don’t often have to ask twice.  Peace has once again been restored, no chicken is bleeding, and all is right in the world.  At least it is all right in my little Farm Woman world, that is.  Too bad the rest of the world isn’t as peaceful and quiet. I’m thinking about taking my show on the road, starting with Washington D.C., which has more than its share of dumb clucks.   I would like to shake my broken fishing pole at all the “I’m-the-boss-and-you’re-not” Senators and say “Jump!”, and they would ask “How high?”  I would like to tap the ground in front of those strutting, feather-fluffing Representatives and say “Move it!” and they would answer “Yes, Ma’am!” I really think that a couple of middle-class Farm Women could get the budget balanced  in half the time with half the salary with only an occasional squawk and minimal pecking at each other.  Pardon me for speaking so frankly, but I think we could have all the poop shoveled out of that  coop in no time.