My dog’s scrambled dinner
After reading yet another column of mine where I recounted the trials and tribulations of farm life, someone asked me if anything ever goes right on our farm. Of course, the answer is yes; however, the challenging times are the ones that I often have difficulty enduring. During those times, I must choose to laugh or cry, and I try always to pick the laughter.
I had another one of those opportunities present itself this weekend.
Laying hens has been a staple on our farm for more than a decade. We typically have about two dozen, and we do our best to provide them with ample room in a cage-free environment. (We tried the “free-range” thing a few years ago, but poop on the porch and chickens in the kitchen put an end to the experiment.)
We do, however, take grass, garden extras or treats to our birds daily, in addition to their ration of grain. They each have more than triple the amount of space-per-bird that commercial operations are required to provide. A fan runs during the summer and, likewise, a heater during the winter. And still, the birds occasionally refuse to lay eggs.
Protein levels, comfort and age all play a factor in a hen’s productivity. We do what we can to assure proper protein levels and comfort, but we cannot stop the aging process.
As they age, they begin to lay eggs more sporadically. Instead of selling dozen after dozen, we begin to hope to have enough to feed our family each day. As long as we can maintain our breakfast and baking supply, the flock is safe. Once it dwindles below, we start to look for another home for the birds.
This old flock is at critical mass right now. We have just enough eggs with few extras. We can occasionally gather enough to send a dozen with someone when they ask, but it is a rare sale.
It was with mixed feelings then, that my son volunteered to give – yes, give – a dozen to a family friend who recently stopped by. I wasn’t sure that we would have enough for our next meal if we gave them away, but I also didn’t want to discourage his generosity.
So I did what I always do when there is potential to become the bad guy. I told him to ask his dad.
My husband is a generous man, so he told our son to take the box of 12 to our friend’s car. My son was practically beaming as he walked the carton to the door. But that smile disappeared in an instant when, as he turned the knob, he lost his grip on the container, popping the lid open. Six splats followed, as eggs smashed onto the concrete floor.
Not one to miss an opportunity, our dog immediately bounded in the open door and began to feast on the gooey mess. The look of utter surprise on everyone’s face was so amusing that I started laughing. Soon everyone joined in. We had cereal for breakfast the next day, but no one cared. We just kept chuckling over all those “scrambled” eggs.
Laura Zoeller can be reached at zoeller5@hughes.net.