Eggs · Hens

How I came to own chickens

This is the story of how Georgina-Henrietta and Eloise came to live at the Little Farm.

I am a grad student in geology. Have I ever mentioned that I’m a geologist? I study paleoclimates and try to reconstruct climate using fossilized plant material called palynomorphs. One day last fall, I had an interview for an internship, and my interview went horribly wrong. For someone who has a degree in math, I somehow managed to miscalculate velocity. I misread seismic lines. I had to be coached through a basic geologic analysis. It was terrible. I left my interview at noon, and crammed my beaten down ego in the car and drove home.

But at home, there was a message waiting for me. Unbeknownst to my roommates, family or boyfriend, I had been looking for some hens for about a week. And a man had some: two, for sale, five months old, soon to be laying. “I will take them,” I wrote back, and sent him my number. He called me five minutes later, told me a place to meet him, and I set off, with $28 in cash. (Could this story be any shadier?)

Thirty minutes later, I was cramming something in my car for the second time that day: two young hens in a too-large cage for my front seat. Three old men sat on the hardware store stoop and laughingly watched me maneuver and angle the cage onto the front seat, stuffing paper towels beneath it to keep the seat clean.

I called my boyfriend on the way home. “I hope you’re not mad at me, but we’re going to need to take on a little building project this weekend.”

And that’s how GH&E came to live at the Little Farm.

Screen shot 2013-02-25 at 11.23.05 PM

 

By the way, E managed to poop on the one little bit of seat not covered by a paper towel, and that was the only time they pooped the whole way home.

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