I Think I am Raising Houdinis

If one more creature gets out of its designated residence, I am going to start swearing more than I usually do.

Not only has this been the Summer of the Great Rabbit Frolic, and the Bursting Brooder Incident, but apparently it is also the Season of the Tunneling Dog.  Phoebe, my erstwhile coon hound, has decided that in order to not be outside she will tunnel under the fence, hide around the side of the neighbor's garage, and when I come out and starting yelling for her, to gallop over to the fence and wait patiently (as I scold her) until I let her back into the house.  Oh yes, never let it be said that negative attention doesn't get you what you want in this world.  Deathly afraid of fireworks?  Just dig under the fence and wait until you get ordered back indoors.  Don't mind if I do, thank you very much.

Once I got the chicks out into the field, I thought it would just be a simple matter of avoiding predator consumption for the next couple of weeks.  But NOOOOOOOOOO.  The past two mornings, I have been greeted by a cheeping herd of fat legged sumo chickens running to me, Mistress of the Food Truck, as I arrive in the lumpy field that they are housed in.  They have mastered the art of piling in one corner of the tractor, thus making it shift off of a hidden hummock of lumped up earth, and giving them a strategic escape hatch to waltz out of.  Then they gaily romp about, oblivious to Death From Above Flying Creatures and Hidden Stealthy Things That Will Eat You Up, having a fabulous time waiting for me to pull in with refreshments.  Once I load the wheelbarrow with beverages and snacks, they happily follow me back to the tractor, and then refuse to go back in without force.  Dang it. So then I chase them around, falling into hidden holes and tripping over clumps of dirt, usually getting covered in chicken s**t in the process.  I wind up sweaty, hoarse from exhorting profanities, bitten by flies and dive-bombed by anxious field birds who think I am perhaps coming to tractor them, next.  They end up happy, eating their little feathered heads off and slurping cool libations, incarcerated once more. 

Chickens.

I leave you with a song related to gardening.