Last night, the wrangling experience was fun. Max and I helped chase chickens toward Ryan, who shepherded (or chickherded?) them into the barn where they roost. It took forever, but it was cute and hilarious. Max got so into it, giggling hysterically as he ran after the "woosters," then turning dead serious, even screamingly frustrated when they wouldn't cooperate.
That was me tonight. Minus the hysterical giggling. Ryan took the bigguns to watch an all-star baseball game with a friend. He just asked me to throw some feed in the shed and hoped the flock would follow. He said I didn't have to put them up. I shoulda listened. But I really thought I could impress him with my sweet animal tending skills and once I got started, my stubborn side kicked in. I would not be outsmarted by a bunch of stupid chickens! I found a mighty weapon in our rake and felt powerful when the rooster that usually terrorizes me (for real!) squawked and flew away from me. I herded several in the barn, then discovered more trying to roost in our nice shed. Un huh! Got those. Found a few more by the house. Done. I was just heading to put away the rake when I spied one lone escapee coming from under the van. I almost wrote him off. Really? If a coyote gets one, we still have approximately 67 more. As long as he drug off the evidence, Ryan wouldn't even have to know... But the "lost sheep" parable and my conscience made me go back and successfully herd him, too. I came in the door, not at all surprised to see that I had been out 45 minutes for the whole ordeal. I was ticked, but couldn't help but feel proud of myself as I washed my hands. And then I saw, out the kitchen window, first one, then two chicks strutting out from under the van. I sure hope the coyote drags their carcasses off.