Nom de Plume

Which is what I am hoping is NOT the reason that the four Welsummers I bought aren’t laying yet. It’s been two weeks; supposedly, this should be enough time for the little stewpots to get over the trauma of moving. And really, there is NOTHING traumatic about their existence. Trust me. They have a nice comfy place to sleep, lots of yummy organic mash and daily treats, fresh water, and a carefree existence. A very carefree existence: Geoff and I like the idea of everyone free-ranging. I mean really free ranging, not just hanging out in their 150 square foot run.

(In the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that today is the first time I’ve just opened the gate; the Houdini twins–two of the chickiepoo crosses–have been squeezing out the gate for eons.)

But have the Stewpots given me a single egg? Nope. Nothing. Nada. The only eggs we’re getting are from the buttercup, who is coming to be known as Old Faithful. She lays eggs more often than what I’ve read about buttercups. I think she’s just so happy not to have a rooster coming after her all the time that she’s laying eggs doubletime in gratitude

So the question is whether they’re going through henopause. It’s either that, or they’re molting. Such is the risk of getting chickens at auctions: Who knows why they were given up?

So much for the never-ending “I hate that useless little freeloader.”

The boyfriend and the dog are now BFFs. It all started when I went to California a few weeks ago. Steve took Harry swimming every day. Now, he takes him everywhere he goes. Day before yesterday, Steve actually threw him in the Jeep to go to the bank. (When asked why, he said–rather defensively–”I’m trying to teach him fiscal responsibility.”)

Yesterday, Steve bought a canoe in preparation for his nephew coming to visit. He bought it off Craig’s List, so drove a pretty fair distance to get it, and then he went canoeing up by Deception Pass.

And yes, he took the dog. Apparently, Harry was so traumatized by being in a canoe that he kept jumping in the water. And he was tired. So tired, in fact, that he permitted this indignity upon his person:

Another egg from the buttercup this evening.

So … what should I name her? Please don’t suggest Buttercup …

Believe it or not, but he’s actually happy with the results–particularly as he now doesn’t have to get a haircut.

Let’s just hope he doesn’t get a job interview in the next week.

I would post pix, but Harry’s in tears under the dining room table and threatening to kill his hairdresser.

Well, for once there isn’t a cloud in the sky. So there’s lots going on — Steve’s building my chicken coop, we have the aforementioned bee condos, lots of plant starts, lots of cleaning. And what do you know? Apparently, there’s this new gallery feature in WordPress. Or was it a plug in? Anyway, let’s check it out …

Marie came over for dinner last night, and the boys chilled under the table.

“Hmmm, is there any food under here?”

“Um. That’s not food.”

“I’m feeling very uncomfortable.”

“WHOA!”

“Perv.”

Bye now.

“Heirlooms are the tomato equivalent of the pug—that “purebred” dog with the convoluted nose that snorts and hacks when it tries to catch a breath.” From How to Grow a Better Tomato: The Case against Heirloom Tomatoes.

Just got home from a meeting, and found this: