On most early afternoons, you can find the chickens lunching at the manure pile. I sometimes join them and on a slightly cool afternoon such as we had today the warmth of the manure pile soaks deep into your bones. Not only did my bottom get all warm, I had my ears wide open for local gossip from the hens.
"She's going to My Face it," warned Chicken Named Dog.
"That's Facebook it," chortled Jane.
"Whatever, we must use code," said Chicken named Dog.
So I didn't get much gossip. In fact, the code was so intricate I had no idea what they were talking about.
A chicken will respect you for sitting with them in manure. If you have to bring your lawn chair to join in the coffee klatch, the chickens won't laugh at you but they do take note and from then on out they will refer to you as a "lawner". I once heard a goat refer to one of our guests as a "lawner", so I suspect most animals admire manure sitters as more evolved.
Soon Wilbur and Granny arrived, and then Priscilla the Old Goose with her duck children. Nearby was the lurking white figure of the new arrival from New Moon. And that is who I will write about tomorrow.
