My house is being invaded by chickens

There’s a certain sound a chicken makes when it walks onto a linoleum floor. It’s kind of a cross between a nervous cluck and the sound of their tiny little chicken brains exploding because of the cracker crumbs on the floor.

I was curled up in a chair earlier reading while the baby napped when it happened:

My kitchen was invaded by chickens.

We’ve been on a month long chicken training program, which sounds stupid – but trust me, if you start shooting your chickens with a pump action water pistol every time they come near your back door, they’ll train super fast. Anyway the training program was going swimmingly, until today, when I was invaded.

I bounced out of my chair, which was no mean feat considering how contorted I was, and shooed them outside, wishing for a secondary water pistol. They ambled out slowly, acting like they own the place. And really, if you poop on something, I’m inclined to let you keep it. Unless that thing is my kitchen floor. Or my shoe. Ask me how I know.

Five minutes later,  they were back inside looking innocent and pecking at a tuft of hair that had collected in the corner. Postpartum hair loss is a very real thing you guys and I’m kind of happy to be shaving my hair off just to combat it. Even if I am worried about bald patches.

I digress.

They wandered back inside and out I chased them, again, slamming the door in their little beaky faces.

I swear, they fluffed their feathers and looked at me like “FINE” before they wandered off in search of bugs and beetles. Which is exactly what good chickens would have been doing in the first place.

Stupid hens.

Fine. You’re not going to share your kitchen? We’re going to hide our eggs where you’ll never find them.