The Surly Farmer

In Charleston, we were located a few miles from the National Weather Service’s local office, so their radar image was our radar image, and we had up to the second accurate storm information.. Now we rely on a NWS radar in Cleveland, some 200 miles away. So last night, when a massive wind hit us just after dark, all of our scrambling for more information was pointless; Weather.com assured us that it was in the fifties with 9 MPH winds. Brother, these were 50 MPH gusts and 30-some sustained winds, or my name isn’t Surly. I don’t know why, but an hour into the vortex, after a dozen or so alarmed looks exchanged between me and the Doctor, I shined a flashlight out the window to check on the chickens and found that their coop had flown the . . . coop? (Gotta work on that one some, I think.) It was on its side about 15 feet from where it had been, and as the coop has no floor, this meant the chickens were free, free or blowing towards Columbus at highway speeds. Dr. Evil and I scurried out, flashlights in hand and found one, two, three, four . . . all six chickens huddled together where their house had once been. How does one feel such relief at discovering the safety of a creature too dumb to even so far figure out their coop has a second, sheltered floor? Well, one does, because I assure you we were quite happy to find them all safe. Having no desire to stand in the gale and try to repair a coop that was designed by high morons (morons who were high, not exulted morons), we secured the coop to the fence and brought the girls back into the basement, much to their very apparent relief. They got a treat of dried mealworms and bedded down in their childhood bedroom. We were able to repair the (stupid) coop today, but it looks like the girls are going old school soon. We are going to repair the rickety old coop on the property and build a new run for them, which I think will make for happier hens. Tireder Surly Farmer, but happier hens. I guess it’s a wash.