An Update: Harvard the Gross

My husband has been prodding me to post a new blog for at least... a week? Two weeks? A month?

You know, life gets busy. Or something.

Here's a run-down of everything that's happened in the past month at the Winiferd house.

1. Harvey is disgusting. 

First, he started peeing on the living room rug.

We sprayed it down with what I call "Stank and Stain" but within hours, the smell would return.

This is seriously the only good recent photo we have of Harvey.

And then Harvey took a dump in the living room rug and helpfully mashed it deep into the shaggy fabric. That thing was done for, immediately.

But Ian's a hopeful man. He scurried about in his underwear at 7 in the morning, desperately trying to salvage the rug.

I had used my Christmas money to buy it last year, and he was worried I would feel heartbroken over the assassination of Shaggy the Rug.

The rug in better days

Alas, I took one sniff of Harvey's gift and knew all was lost.

Laura: "It's dead. Throw it away."

Ian: "You're okay with that? I thought you'd be upset."

Laura: "It's just a rug. There are worse things in life you can lose."

2. Harvey is trying to kill himself.

Harvey took a happy trip under the bed two weekends ago. He emerged with an enormous bald spot. He had cleanly ripped out a perfect circle of hair on his neck.

The bald spot looked red and inflamed. I couldn't stand to look at it so I gave Ian some Neosporin and asked him to coat the bald spot. Harvey's bald patch immediately began looking better.

Then, last weekend, he scraped the hell out it on his cat door, leaving him with a bloody flesh wound atop his bald spot.

I run away screeching when he shows off his bald spot now.

Harvey also enjoys dangling off high shelves while attempting to eat the semi-poisonous plants we had to move indoors.

If we find a suicide note in the next few days, it will all make sense.

3. Polly has feathers on her head now.

In an attempt to piss off Harvey, Polly has grown back the feathers on her bald spot. It appears we must have at least one bald animal in the family at all times.

4. Sal went to chicken heaven.

Something snatched up Sal. At this point, no one feels sad or mushy or frankly, even surprised, when something gets our chickens.

You learn quickly that chickens are just food sources, no matter how hard you try to make them into pets.

That's Sal on the left

5. Ian cooked phallic turkey sausage. 

I told him not to buy them, but he insisted. And then he screeched in horror as the wieners fried on the stove.

Ian: "I can't eat these! They're disgusting!" 

Of course, he ate two of them. Might I add, they were both disgusting-looking and expired. One week later, he still seems fine.

Survival of the Fittest

On Sunday afternoon, Ian summoned me to the barn and pointed out two sets of animal tracks: one set of animal prints walking into the barn and one set of chicken prints walking out of the barn.

Some wildlife apparently sneaked into the barn looking for a chicken dinner, and the chicken dinner cunningly ran circles around it, escaping to blissful freedom.

Ian: "We have some smart chickens."

Laura: "We're down to the four who out-foxed the foxes."

Ian: "And we started out with ten."

Laura: "It's literally survival of the fittest at this point. We're left with the strongest and the brainiest. If I had known that, I would have named these last four Charlotte Darwin or Alberta Einstein or something."

Famous last words.

A mere day later, Ian and I prepped for an evening walk with the dog. I pulled on Winnie's harness while Ian went to put up the chickens for the night.

Winnie and I grew impatient in the driveway as Ian took longer than usual to tuck the chickens into bed.

Suddenly a cat streaked past us, flying down the driveway. Ian came running after it.

Ian: "I have to get a flashlight! Marjorine is missing! I had to chase that cat away."

Missing: one white and red hen. Matches the barn.

Damn. When an animal has been skulking in the backyard, it usually means we have one less chicken.

We searched the yard by the fuzzy glow of the flashlight, looking for a mound of white feathers from poor dead Marjorine.

Ian ventured into the greenhouse.

Ian: "Oh my god!"

Crap. He found poor dead Marjorine.

Then I heard Ian laughing.

Poor guy. All the chicken carnage has gone to his head. He's lost his mind.

Ian: "Look! Look!"

I walked to the greenhouse, cringing, scared to see Marjorine's bloody carcus.

Ian pulled back an aluminum tray revealing a hidden Marjorine, calm, peaceful, and serene. Our little Marjie had outsmarted the cat.

Then Ian lifted up Marjorine and showed me a couple week's worth of eggs. Marjorine had been nesting and hiding her eggs in the greenhouse, lest we take her babies.

"What a good mommy," I cooed.

And that's how Marjorine proved, once again, she's a smart chicken. We're signing her up to take the SAT nex week.

This Means War

Shit got real this past weekend. We lost two more chickens. That's three birds in less than three days.

I hesitate to reveal which ones because: 1. I obviously think my four readers consider the Winiferd family superstars and will thus sob profusely, and 2. one of the chickens who died actually was a superstar.

That's right. The predator took Janathan Fuzzy Proctor. He also took Hester Prynne.

Jane

Hester 

Baby Jane. Sniff.

Baby Hester, our shy one

It all started on Friday night. Winnie began barking at around 3:00 am. I sleep like the dead and barely noticed. But an irritated Ian tossed Winnie out of the bedroom, thinking she was barking at the cats.

In a less sleepy state, I would have instantly realized something was amiss. Winnie was barking aggressively, which she only does when something is wrong.

At around 3:30 am, Winnie began barking again. I decided this meant she needed to go to the bathroom (What? I was sleepy), so I leashed her up and groggily led her into the front yard. Winnie lunged frantically against her leash, trying to bolt to the backyard.

I picked her up, placed her in the yard, and commanded her to use the bathroom. She used the bathroom. Then I dragged a still-frantic Winnie back towards the house.

By the time we reached the carport, Winnie had grown wild. At that point, I got nervous. I made the most logical assumption one could make in that situation: an axe-wielding, homicidal maniac was in the backyard (WHAT? I was sleepy).

I scooped up Winnie, dashed inside, and locked the door. Winnie and I trotted back into the bedroom.

Ian: "Did Winnie bark?"

Laura: "Yes. She kept lunging towards the backyard."

Ian: "Something's probably after the chickens!"

Laura: "But... I thought it was homicidal maniac. With an axe. [Did I mention I was sleepy?]

Ian scrambled outside, while I fretted over homicidal maniacs.

He returned several minutes later and announced, "No more Hester. And no more Jane."

Bye bye, Janathan 

Hester in the middle of her siblings, always the calm one

Hester Prynne

We think it was a raccoon because it dug underneath the cage to grab the chickens. And we think the raccoon, knowing the chickens' whereabouts, kept coming back for more. 

Laura: "I feel like our chickens are 1940s Jewish refugees, and the raccoons and foxes are the Gestapo."

Ian: "Marjorine's writing a diary."

The next morning, we pronounced war on the wildlife. We dragged one chicken coop into the barn and dragged the other chicken coop directly beside it on the outside of the barn.

The indoor coop

The outdoor coop

Ian cut out out a door and fashioned a walkway between the two coops. 

Ian: "The chickens have a bathhouse. We're going to learn which ones are secretly gay."

Laura: "And Republican."

Marjorine and Sal inspecting the walkway/ bathhouse 

The chickens have access to both coops during the day. At night, we close off the walkway so that they spend the night in a cage inside the barn for double protection.

So far, it's worked. We hope we've thrown the predator for a loop.  

So we're down to four: Sal, Marjorine, Polly, and Caroline.

And to the area wildlife, we formally issue the following statement: Go to hell, motherfuckers. The war is on.

Where in the World is Polly Chickenheimer?

Ian and I keep running into interesting adventures with our newest flock of chickens. And when I say "adventures," I mean, "Dude, these things keep dying."

First, Jessup met his fate and went to that big chicken coop in sky. Then Maybelle did the same thing. Except we weren't fully responsible for Maybelle's demise. That honor goes to some crafty fox or raccoon.

We were two down from our original four. And then, on Thursday night, Polly went missing. Ian had let the chickens out of their cages to play in the yard while he used the weed-eater on the edge of the property.

He never saw a single dog, cat, hawk, or other predator descend upon our chickens. The chickens played merrily, running in circles and squawking.

When Ian finished weed-eating, he discovered Polly was missing. Ian and I searched and searched for Polly. Late afternoon turned into evening, and we had to break out flashlights.

Polly is our fastest and most cunning chicken. She likes to play games of hide and seek, roosting in tree branches and hiding in dark places. She's our friendliest chicken by far.

Also, Polly is bald on top. Either Jessup or Maybelle pecked her poor little head bare.

Being the sort who enjoys formal names on animals, I gave Polly the full name "Pauline" when I named her. Because Polly by itself is just too informal for a chicken, you know? Pauline gives her some dignity.

Polly's full name is Pauline Baldy Chickenheimer.

Ian and I enjoyed singing Polly Wolly Doodle to her. I delighted in calling her "Polly Wobbles" and "Polly Pockets." Polly Wobbles was feisty. We had grown attached to her, bald spot and all.

So when Polly went missing, Ian and I felt distraught.

Laura: "Polly's idol was Amelia Earhart. I bet Polly was building a secret plane. And she finished it this afternoon and flew off. I bet she wanted to be the first chicken to fly across the Atlantic. You know, in a plane."

Ian: "Aww. That makes me sad. I'll miss singing Polly Wolly Doodle to her." 

Laura: "I'll tell my blog readers she's flying around the world, so they won't feel sad. I can make a special column."

Ian: "It'll be like Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? Except with Polly Chickenheimer."

Laura: "We can Photoshop her into exotic locations."

Ian and I went to bed that night still feeling upset about Polly's disappearance.

The next morning, we awoke to Polly back home in her cage.

Ian: "Ms. Chickenheimer is back in her cage this morning. It's an X-File."

Polly is remaining mum on her whereabouts.

Perhaps she flew to the Hair Club for Men headquarters to try to fix that bald patch. Or perhaps she flew to Buckingham Palace to take tea with the Queen.

I'll let you know when she gives us the scoop.

Here are Ian and me serenading Polly with Polly Wolly Doodle. Ian plays banjo, I provide vocals, and Polly makes a special appearance. 

We had a bit of camera trouble so it sounds like it's playing through the old phonograph.

Watch closely. 

As soon as I finish singing of a chicken, "who sneezed so hard with the whooping cough; he sneezed his head and tail right off," Polly sneezes violently, spraying me with bits of corn and sludgy brown goo. 

Well played, Ms. Chickenheimer. Well played.

When John Became Jane

The chicks have grown into small chickens. And, well, what we thought were newly-developing rooster noises were really just your average chicken noises.

And John Proctor's spur was actually his extra toe, Silkie Bantams having an extra toe and all. (Interesting side-note: Silkie Bantams have blue feet, bones, and skin. Ours has a delicate blue face and crazy blue feet).

And what we thought was growing into a giant rooster forehead was actually a giant Silkie Bantam Afro.  

And what we thought was John's protective rooster nature was actually a Silkie Bantam's inherently gentle and caring nature:

"Silkie Bantams are a fantastic breed for individuals who enjoy birds that are docile [and] good with children. They make excellent mothers."

Silkie Bantams, called "the lap cat of the chicken world," are darling creatures. And Ian and I had no idea what we were dealing with, so we stupidly called John a rooster.

Well, John's a girl. We now call her Janathan or Jane or Janie. Her full name is now Janathan Fuzzy Proctor. We have 100 percent girl chickens.

It's a huge relief because after dealing with Jessup Hush'up, we worried that Jane would grow into a crowing nightmare and we'd have to get rid of her. And neither of us wanted to get rid of her.

If it had come to that, we'd have given her to my parents who live deeper in the country and could get away with a crowing rooster.

Fortunately, our Janie is a girl. She's the smartest of the chickens by far.

Ian will pull off old tree bark and give the grubs to the chickens, who gobble grubs the way I gobble chocolate pie. Jane's the only one with the smarts to go to the bark itself and pull off the grubs directly.

She's also the only one who runs straight into the hen-house when a loud noise or movement spooks the chickens. She runs directly to safety, while the others run in ridiculous, flapping circles.

The Sad Finale of Maybelle 

Then there's Maybelle. Poor, poor Maybelle. Maybelle was one of the four chickens we acquired a couple of weeks ago.

One night last week, Ian slept fitfully.

He kept thinking he heard the distant sound of chicken screams but decided he was suffering from your average poultry-induced anxiety.

At the crack of dawn he headed outside and found that a fox or raccoon had pulled Maybelle from her cage.

Ian followed a trail of white feathers into the neighbor's yard where he spotted some of Maybelle.

The fox had scurried off with as much of Maybelle as he could carry, for Maybelle was a big, fat chicken.

Maybelle in happier times

Ian woke me up to tell me. As he recounted the story, we both giggled because we're horrible people

Laura: "Did you remove the piece of Maybelle from the neighbor's yard?"

Ian: "No, I left it there."

Laura and Ian: <Giggle manically>

Our original 5 babies are doing well. Janathan is the obvious favorite around here, but my second favorite is Marjorine:

Ian's second favorite chicken varies between Sal and Bernadette:

Sal

Bernadette 

Ian has nicknamed Bernadette "Goldie," while I've been trying to enforce the nickname "Birdie."

Hester Prynne is our quietest chicken. She hangs back during playtime in the yard. She sits quietly and watches the others run in circles and flap their wings:

A reflective Hester 

Spottswood plans to knit Hester a sweater with a scarlet letter "A" embroidered on it. 

Neither Ian nor I attempt to hide our favoritism towards Jane. I coo, "I love you, Janathan!" every time I pass the hen-house. 

The blatant favoritism has probably traumatized the others so we're arranging intensive therapy for Sal, Bernadette, Marjorine, and Hester.

And we're arranging some modeling gigs for this sexy thing:

The Sad Story of Jessup Hush'up

The Tuesday after we married, Ian brought home three hens and a rooster. His co-worker had a friend who needed to get rid of all four birds, and Ian had agreed to take them.

Being a responsible pet owner, I scurried to prepare for the new birds' arrival:

Laura: "We'll name the hens Maybelle, Caroline, and Polly. And the rooster shall be Jessup."

I knew we had entered troubling times when I pulled into the driveway that evening and immediately heard the ear-piercing sounds of the rooster crowing.

The rooster crowed non-stop. I'm talking every ten seconds. I walked to the backyard and stared at the monstrous chicken:

Laura: "That thing's gotta go."

Ian: "He's been crowing all day. All day. He never stops. I thought he might slow down once he settled in. But he keeps crowing."

Laura: "Jessup's full name is Jessup Hush'up."

We attempted to hush up Jessup by covering his cage and placing him in the barn. Jessup continued to send his crows blaring through the neighborhood.

Ian: "I keep waiting for the neighbors to call the cops. Should we kill him?"

Laura: "We have to. Loud roosters are prohibited. We can't let him crow all night."

Ian: "Are you sure we want to kill him?"

Laura: "We can either slaughter him now, as humanely as possible, or we can wait until two in the morning when I'll stamp outside, all sleep-deprived and pissed off, and kill him in a murderous rage. We should do it now."

Neither of us have a natural inclination to kill chickens. We picked up Jessup and stared at him and tried to work up the nerve to turn him into dinner.

I was too squeamish to watch, so Ian carried out the task. Through the flurry of feathers and chicken blood, I contributed by making encouraging comments:

Laura: "The honeymoon ends so quickly. One minute you're marrying the man of your dreams and the next you're watching him execute a chicken."

After Jessup breathed his last breathe, we stuck the him in boiling water for ten seconds and then plucked the feathers.

I read instructions aloud from Google on how to gut a chicken, but by the time I reached the section entitled, "How to Disembowel Your Chicken: Ten Easy Steps to Removing the Anus," we decided we only wanted the legs.

Ian chopped off the legs and some of the breast and disposed the rest of the carcass in the trash.

Ian: "Keep your voice down. The neighbors will wonder what the hell we're doing."

Laura: "WHAT'S THAT, IAN? YOU WANT TO HIDE THE BODY IN THE BARN?"

Ian seasoned the meat with chili powder and sea salt and stuck it in the oven. After it cooked, he ate the chicken breasts.

Laura: "Is it good? What's it taste like?"

Ian: "It tastes like chicken."

Laura: "Wow!"

Ian: "Aren't you going to eat some?"

Laura: "Gross. No."

The legs were overcooked and dry, so Ian and the dog split up the rest of the chicken meat.

Ian: "Winnie loves this stuff. She's begging for more... She's gonna fart blood tomorrow."

Laura: "There's a chicken demon in your stomach. But you made that entire meal, from start to finish."

Ian: "I don't know whether to feel ashamed or proud. I guess Jessup's in a better place now."

And he was.

Some Rooster: The Miraculous Transformation of Jonathan Fuzzy Proctor

Over the past two months, the chicks have shed their down and acquired feathers. Except one.

John Proctor went through a patchy, raggedy stage like his sisters, and we assumed he was on the verge of morphing into a feathery monster who would soon be kicked off the homestead, right into our bellies.

But sometimes miracles happen.

John has always had a different look to him. As a baby, his giant forehead gave his face a perpetually intense look.

He was the only chick to calmly pose for close-up photos. He was the first chick we could identify by name, and he was certainly the first chick we grew attached to.

John Proctor never grew feathers. Instead, he shed his down and promptly grew a mound of fluff. What we had initially pegged as a large forehead grew into an impressive Afro.

John-John is rapidly growing into one of the fanciest roosters we've ever seen. Ladies and gentlemen, we think we have a Silkie Bantam.

We first considered the idea when my parents visited the chickens a few weeks ago and stared at John, perplexed.

Laura's mom: "That can't be a rooster. He has no feathers. Maybe he's a late bloomer?"

Laura's dad: "Maybe he's a guinea?"

Then we went to Mansfield and saw a huge cage full of Silkie Bantams. We also saw this sign:

Silkie Bantams have an extra toe. And John has an extra toe. Everything clicked.

We can't eat such a special, fancy rooster. He's a doll. His bottom half has puffed out into a fuzzy hoop-skirt. His 'fro grows by the minute.

He has begun to crow, albeit a half-crow, in that screechy, adolescent voice boys acquire during puberty.

He's the gutsiest of the chickens. When we release them from their cage and let them play in the yard, he ventures the furthest out. He also herds the other chickens and keeps a protective eye on them.

When we scoop up the hens, he peeps furiously, upset that the girls have left his sight.

Ian: "Listen to John. He's mad that I took his bitches."

In short, we are crazy about John Proctor. Being so elegant and fluffy, I've started calling him Jonathan, and his full name is now Jonathan Fuzzy Proctor.

If you were worried we were going to eat the boy, then worry no longer.

John-John is here to stay.

When We Visited Missourah

Last weekend, the city's biggest musical festival rolled into town. Booze, rock and roll, and frenzied partying engulfed the city. And were where we? Why, in the the most rootin', tootin' place known to man: Mansfield, Missouri.

If regular updates on cat vomit and chicken poop haven't reeled you in yet, I'm positive an entire post about Mansfield, Missouri (population 1,296) will leave you on the edge of your seat, frothing for more Winiferd in the Burbs.

As a child, I adored the Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I still do, in fact.

I pick them up every few years or so and delve into sensual descriptions of Almanzo Wilder's family dinners. It's complete food porn. You haven't fully considered the beauty of buttered toast until you hear Laura Ingalls Wilder describe it in intricate detail.

Then there's the fact that the Ingalls family is always inches away from blizzards, wolf attacks, panther attacks, Scarlett Fever, and starvation.

Don't look away; the entire family might die at any moment. The books are often desolate and depressing. So you can imagine how much I love them.

Ian and I headed up to Mansfield to see the Laura Ingalls Wilder farm house and the Laura Ingalls Wilder museum.

I saw it once before as a teenager, but you can never see enough of the Wilder museum. (I was a very cool teenager).

At Rocky Ridge farm, home of Laura Ingalls Wilder

Yep. Still got it.

More excited about the foliage

Whatever. Let's continue freaking out over the house. I want to live in the house.

I thought Ian was mildly bored by the Wilder museum which was full of patch-work quilts and rag dolls, so I tried to point out things of interest.

Laura: "That's Carrie Ingalls. She looked like the Wicked Witch of the West."

Ian: "Wow. She did."

Laura: "Poor thing. She was sickly in the books. And she kinda got hit with the ugly stick."

Ian: "Who's that?!"

Laura: "That's Pa Ingalls. Isn't he terrifying? He had light blue eyes, so that's probably why he looks like he has no eyeballs."

Ian: "The camera stole Pa's soul."

Then we watched a short video and learned Laura's daughter, Rose, had a donkey named Spookendyke.

Which led to hours of hysterical giggling in the car, as we yelled out "Spookendyke" in horrible Dutch accents.

And, err, yelling about the little Dutch boy who stuck his finger in the dyke... STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT.

Laura: "We should get one of those miniature, fuzzy donkeys and name it Spookendyke."

Ian: "No, I'd rather get a goat and name it Spookendyke. I want Spookendyke to make cheese."

Ian and Laura: <Stare at each other>

And then we died. The End.

After geeking out on all things Wilder, Ian and I drove to Baker Creek for the annual spring planting festival. Baker Creek is awesome because it sells heirloom seeds. (Ian wanted me to say that).

Actually, Baker Creek is awesome because it has a pioneer village named Bakersville.

Laura: "It's like an episode of Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman!"

Ian: "Is it? I never watched that show."

Laura: "Oh yes. It came on Saturday nights at 7. I watched it compulsively as a child because it was so dumb. I couldn't turn away. It was like Seventh Heaven in that regard."

Ian: "I see."

Laura: "I mean, Dr. Quinn was curing cancer before cancer existed."

I discreetly tried to snap photos of everyone's pets. There were lots of Winnie look-alikes:

A freaked-out cat on a leash:

Laura: "Look, Ian! Those sheep are playing together! They're playing chase."

Ian: "Umm, I don't think they're playing..."

Laura: "Oh. Oh my. This is just how children learned the facts of life in the 1800s. How authentic."

We saw tons of roosters, hens, and baby chicks. The baby chicks were for sale, and Ian had a brief bout of chicken baby fever.

What? Doesn't the pungent odor of chicken feces give you baby fever?

He pondered the possibility of buying a few more chicks, but I squashed that because I'm mean and we have enough pets.

Ye olde porta johns, out on the range

Sun-baked cookies

Our Music Fest

Little Hippie on the Prairie, listening to olde timey music

Finally, did you know there's a skating rink in Mansfield? It was across the street from out hotel.

It was the most red-neck place we'd ever seen, which is saying something. This was the entrance:

We were convinced we had walked into a prostitution sting until we saw three little girls wearing roller blades.

So we skated and it was fun. And it was the best trip ever.

I leave with a picture of the last of the Ingalls blood-line, Rose Wilder Lane, daughter of Laura Ingalls Wilder, with her beloved Maltese dogs. Ian surreptitiously snapped the photo when no one was looking.

I think this proves I'm the heiress of the Wilder legacy. Please send me my royalties. And let me live in the house.