I work in a hen house.
Technically, it's an office, with computers buzzing (mainly tuned to the internet!), and papers churning, but that's where any differences end.
I work (read-lay eggs) along with six other very strong willed chicks, in veryclosequarters. We are typically on our perches hours before the sun rises, and we spend the next 10 hours or so pushing out those golden eggs. (In our cases, those golden eggs we bear are for the baskets held by "Management" -best spoken in the voice of the troll -like midget from that classic, albeit short lived HBO series, Carnival).
We are seven very different chicks at varying laying stages of our lives. Some of us have yet to fertilize our first eggs, while several of us are watching our hatchlings hatch chicks. Suffice it to say, there is enough hormonal energy in this VERY small hutch to supply a third world country with enough nukes to become a major player in World War III.
Have you ever even tried to regulate the temperature for such a wide range of mother hens? Half want the air conditioning set to Alaskan temperatures, while the rest have under desk heaters searing their little chicken legs to a nice crispy brown.
It is best to come to work in a bikini layered with sweats, pants, shirts, and sweaters, so as to accomodate your own temperature. Trust me, summers have some chicks working naked, while others are wearing ski jackets. I kid you not.
Forget the fact that when "Management" (herein known as Foghorn Leghorn)enters the roost disturbing the hard laying chicks, there is a gaggle of sqwarking and the feathers do in fact fly!
The sqwarking concerns any number of highly intelligent chicken tid bits-
Who's being catty (deadly in a hen house, I tell ya!) -That would probably be me.
Who's not working nearly as hard as the other chicks - That would be all of us,as we are ALL THE MOST HARD LAYING OF THEM ALL.
Who's hair is a mess- Me again.
Who's stealing all the best vacation times- Um, guilty here.
Who's starting the rumor that we are all nothing but a bunch of chickens with our heads cut off---um, Mrs. K.? -You may have to own THAT one!
Anyway. We ARE like a bunch of chickens in a tiny coop. And we do Cluck while we go about our business of laying the golden eggs. And yes, the feathers really DO fly when a fox is in our hen house.
But you know what? As long as I gotta lay eggs (and I do, just ask the Mountain Man!), I'd rather do it with these chicks, all of them. Come hell of high water, I wouldn't trade them for finest chicks in town.
Actually, if I did trade 'em in, I'm afraid I might end up with a bunch of turkeys!
Thank you, no. I'll just keep my eggs in THIS basket, thank you very much.
|From The Hen House|