Dog Debacle & Redemption

It was all my fault.

It was easier to get Bandit into the cab of the truck instead of the bed, because the used utility truck we own was/is jacked up for bushwhacking. Though the truck bed tailgate is out of easy reach, Bandit can get her paws up to the cab floor. Once she's on her hind legs, all I need to do is lift her arthritic hips, and let her walk forward. Her sister Maggie can jump into the truck cab all by herself, so this should be easy, right?

Yeah. You know where this is going.

In the interests of efficiency and saving time, my keys, purse, phone, and full travel mug of coffee are placed in the cab's center console before getting Bandit inside. From there, as they say, "chaos ensues".

Center console with coffee and purse overturns as Bandit gets into the truck and decides she is going to drive. Bandit's paws and underbelly also happen to have soil all over from digging up a cool spot under the trees, so soon there is soil mixed with coffee mixed with nervous dog saliva all over the vinyl seats, floors, and dashboard. Swell. No time to do more than wipe the driver seat with a nearby towel, and off we go to the vet. Bandit continues to insist on driving, or at the very least sitting on my lap en route. I strong-arm her aside for the blessedly short 2.3 mile drive, while giving thanks for automatic transmission. Bandit is the poster-dog for pet-seat restraints.

We get to the vet. I step out of the cab and get ready to leash her when she leaps from the truck seat and starts a panicked run off the vet property. Gawds, this day is getting better & better. A vet tech witnesses the commotion, and makes an end-run before Bandit heads into the local subdivision. So glad she loves the vet techs. Bandit practically drags me into the vet office after capture, trailing the tech.

I pick Bandit up later that afternoon. The tech helps me lift Bandit into the truck bed instead of the cab, as I still don't want anyone but myself driving. I bungee Bandit's collar to a tie-down in the truck bed to deter a potential suicide leap while on the drive home. I was not looking forward to lifting her out of the truck bed by myself, but I'd rather get her home safe and deal with a torqued back from lifting than wrestling the wheel with her on the road. Party pooper, I know.

Photo: Bandit is unbungee'd at this point, I swear.

Here we get to the redemption part. Perhaps some rare moment in the past when I wasn't crabby, I made someone smile and accrued some positive vibes. Don't know how else to credit the idea that pops into my head on how to get Bandit out of (and in the future, into) the truck bed. Next to our driveway is a section of deep/high cutout on the hillside. I back the truck up to the cutout, and drop the tailgate. It lines up perfectly with a level patch of ground. Maggie, excited to see her sister, bounds up the gentler part of the slope and runs into the truck bed to get a good sniff of Bandit. I stand around feeling smug, admiring my handiwork, then wonder why Bandit isn't leaving the truck.

Oh, right. She is still bungee'd to the truck bed.

Bless the unconditional love that dogs give us. I'm not sure how Bandit survives our relationship.

Twenty Bales in a 19-Bale Truck

Alternate title: "Don't ever let a country boy tell you how much your truck bed will hold." - Spouse

We've done things like this before - see "Moving Via the Nail-biter Express" - and it was well past time to do it again. I found a good deal on the season's first fresh straw bales* on Craigslist, and asked Spouse to help me to pick up a truck-bed's worth. I was thinking ten, maybe twelve bales max. We got to the farm site, the guys started loading, and then there was a brief confab between Spouse and Farmer about estimated safe load. "If you stack them like this, you should be able to fit a few more...". Well, we know how that goes. Twenty bales of straw (and cash paid out) later, the Farmer quickly skeedaddled, and we were left with a load that wobbled back & forth like a Dr. Seuss sketch as we hit bumps and turned corners. The bungee netting I had brought wasn't strong enough to keep everything firmly in place, so we hit the closest hardware store we could find for more tie-down straps. And a bathroom break. We almost sh*t ourselves driving the few miles there. 

Load (relatively) more securely in place, next decision was how to safely get back home before dark. Choose the faster toll road? 80-miles-an-hour may cause problems. Choose the slower freeways? More turns, heavier traffic, but the lesser speed limits might be safer. Spouse chose the latter, and white-knuckled it all the way home. Other farmers on the road were looking at our load like we were crazy. And crazier still: we kept driving, going past our home and into town to get pizzas. Neither of us were gonna be in the mood to cook after all this. 

We got home just before dusk. "So," says Spouse, "which would you prefer to do in the dark? Take care of animal chores or stack straw bales?" Decision: animals first. Then we set up two wood pallets for stacking. [Not a good idea to stack hay or straw directly on the ground here, as ants will quickly make the bales their new home.] Stacked nine bales (3x3x3) on one pallet, eight (3x3x2) on another, and the remaining three stacked on a couple of cement blocks. Done. Whew. 

Moral of the story: Why do ridiculous things like this yourself when you can do it vicariously through our blog? On the other hand, the good news is we've enough straw for our raised vegetable beds and bedding for the ducks for probably the entire year. Sweet!

* What's the difference between hay and straw? Hay is made from dried grasses and greens (like alfalfa), and is meant for livestock consumption. Straw, on the other hand, are the castoff stalks from harvested cereal grains like oats, wheat and rice, and are not meant for consumption. Straw is used for animal bedding, a lightweight mulch for veggie beds, and sometimes even structures are made from straw bales. In a garden setting, the difference between laying down hay versus straw is kind of like laying down sheets of paper versus small bamboo stalks. If it gets wet, the "paper" (hay) will mat down, whereas the "bamboo stalks" (straw) will shed more of the water and not mat. Both will decompose eventually. Straw is less expensive as well, about one-third the price of hay.  

SNAAAAAAKE!!!

"HUUUMAAAAN!!!" She was just as startled as I.

I was in the process of cleaning out the goose pond. I was reaching in to reposition the pumps, as she was trying to make her way out. We met eyeball to eyeball, faces just inches from each other. She dove back into the pond as I jerked backwards, almost landing on my @ss.

If she's hanging out in the pond, I'm guessing the bulge in her belly is one of the regular frogs - especially since I only counted two frogs during cleanup this time, where there's usually three. Mmm, frog.

She finally made her way out.

The geese watched the progress, entirely unamused. The geese are never amused when it comes to snakes.

The snake found a safe hidey-hole under the pond structure, where I imagine she'll wait until the geese leave.

Smart snake. 

[Question from Twitter: what kind of snake is this? Checking field guides, it's probably a Checkered Garter Snake]

These Dogs

Why do we have these dogs, again? Well I know why we have livestock guardian dogs. They are supposed to guard the chickens, geese, D.A., and whatever follows D.A. home this week (you not getting off the hook for those peahens, hon). What I don’t know is why we have these dogs. Yes, they are Great Pyrenees from a working farm. Yes, they are very active at night, presumably scaring off foxes and raccoons (but not little bunnies because we see them at night within 30 feet of the house and the dogs). And yes, we have only lost one chicken to predation since they have been here.

However, all dogs have their idiosyncrasies and these two are no different. Maggie hates thunderstorms. She hates them so much you can tell how bad a storm will be just by watching how quickly she retreats to her bed on the porch. Bandit is the brave one until she gets to the vet, and then it's Maggie that becomes the happy dog without a care in the world. Bandit dutifully watches after the livestock, and is the first one to come running when the geese start squawking. She even paws at Bob, the rotten gander, just so he will chew on her: she reacts like his nips are love and affection. Maggie, however, watches the gates and not to intercept any interlopers. Nope. She is looking to escape and the last two times she left Bandit behind – so much for thick-as-thieves littermates.

And then there is the car. The first year with us we could not get the dogs into the car. It was a virtual battle requiring heaving, pulling, and cajoling, and that was D.A. just trying to get me out the door to drag the dogs into the car. That has all changed in the last 12 months. If there is a car door open, then there is at least 110 pounds of drooling dog inside and possibly 220. Normally, it is not a big deal since you can call them and they get out. Today, however, was different.

It was starting to rain, which meant Maggie was up on the porch. The rain happened to coincide with errands for D.A. and I, who were getting in the car. As we headed out, Maggie appeared to think that we were leaving and that the weather might be nicer out beyond the eight acre fenced-in prison we call home. She followed us to the gate and before I could close it she was dashing to freedom. Bandit being the smarter (or slower) one stayed behind and barked encouragement. I am still not sure if Bandit’s barks were in support of D.A. who has started pursuit, or for Maggie who is looking for a lack of thunder and lightning somewhere two states over.

Did I mention the rain? It was a good Texas rain. The kind that made D.A. shield her eyes so she could see where she was going while running after Maggie. I think it was heavy enough to slow down Maggie because she stopped about 50 yards from the gate, where D.A. could grab her. I had D.A. put her in the back seat of my little Subaru Impreza and we drove back to the gate, where D.A. jumped out and corralled Bandit before she could get out the gate as well.

Once through the (now secured) gate, D.A. opened the rear door to let Maggie out. Maggie was fine to continue soiling my back seat, and stayed put. Bandit thought that looked like fun so she jumped in, too. Apparently this looked entirely too cozy for D.A. who by this time is completely soaked, and sent me back to the house while she walked back. She should have run to watch the spectacle that was about to come.

I drove up the driveway and parked. The dogs looked to me as if expecting a trip to the drive through for double cheese burgers or, at minimum, a trip to Dairy Queen for that new pecan pie Blizzard. When I opened the door they weren’t going anywhere. I pulled Maggie out and then went back for Bandit, who saw what was in store and jumped from the back seat to the front for my keys and a clean getaway. But since dogs can’t operate clutch (lucky for me and the local Dairy Queen) I was able to collar Bandit and drag her out. It was at this point I realized that I had either left the back door open or Maggie was able to open the door with her paws because now Maggie was sitting in the back seat right where she was when we started this story. As I went to get her, she also jumped to the front seat, which Bandit had also just reclaimed.

Now I am completely soaked and there are still two wet and muddy dogs in my car who, according to the mud splatter on my dash, prefer a lot of air conditioning and don’t like NPR on the radio. I finally get them both dragged out and then D.A. walks up and has no idea what happened until I explained and showed her the inside of the car. The dogs tried to tell their side of the story, but decided they were tired and laid down on the porch instead. I think they were thinking the same thing we were: "why do we let them live here again?"

[pic top: Bandit in the front seat during dryer times. Pic bottom: Maggie being a storm barometer]

Moving via the Nailbiter Express

The stock tank: 8' in diameter.
The trailer: 8'x4', with 4' high rails.
The winds: coming out of the SouthWest at about 5-10 miles per hour.

A complete stranger came up to Spouse and asked "how far do you have to drive to get that thing home?" "Ten miles", Spouse replied. "Wow. Be careful."

Spouse drove the car and trailer, white-knuckled, all the way home. He probably would have bit his nails too if he didn't have to keep both hands on the steering wheel.

Average speed before the tank started tipping and pivoting: 40 MPH.

We - and the stock tank - made it home all in one piece.

[pic: Spouse recovering from the trip]

Hills Be Not Proud

I left my car keys in Spouse's vehicle, and he went on his merry way to Houston. No spare key in the house. Nice guy that he is, he called to ask if I wanted the keys overnight mailed. Unfortunately, he called while I was napping, so all I heard was "spare key" (as in "do you have one"), and mumbled "no". "Are you sure?" "Yeah, I'm sure *mumble-mumble*"...

So, no keys.

Today was delivery day to the Bountiful Sprout Co-op. I also put in my first order of other's goods - a produce basket, some ground pork, and five pounds of Roma tomatoes for a small canning experiment. "No problem", I thought, "I'll just ride my bicycle there. It's only two miles."

Nice thinking, Tex. Too bad you didn't consider that #1, you haven't ridden your bike in almost three years, #2 you'd also be carrying extra weight in a backpack filled with eggs, ice, and produce, #3 it's over 100° F today, and #4 you are aerobically challenged.

I huffed. I puffed. I wheezed. They don't call this The Hill Country out of perversity. It's the reason why hard-core cyclists like to train here. It's why Lance Armstrong, for goodness sake, lives in this area. It WAS uphill both ways, I sh*t you not!

I got to the co-op delivery site and collapsed. Water out of the tap never tasted so good. Cindy let me hang out with her in the air-conditioning while the rest of the deliveries came in. As soon as my ordered goodies were available, she let me take them. Then there was the ride home. Oh, gawd, the ride home...

I wasn't completely stupid on the return trip. I got off the bike and walked it up the biggest hills, although I rode for as long as I could.

So, am I proud? Hard to say. Ask me tomorrow after the pain sets in.

[Pic: chickens asking "are you alright? Yes? You have food for us, then?"]

The Joys of Free-Range Chickens

Every once in awhile the chickens will get a wild hair (feather?) up their butt and decide that The Coop Is No Longer Desirable. Sometimes it's the presence of a broody hen, yelling at any other hens daring to approach her precious clutch. Other times they've figured out that their Eggs Are Disappearing, and that's not good. Whatever the reason, once they decide The Coop Is No Longer Desirable, they'll hie off to some hidden, cozy location on the property to start laying eggs anew.

This is the third time in two years I've had to do an egg hunt. None of those times have fallen on Easter, just so you know.

The current egg diaspora is due to Blondie #2, aka Specklebutt, who has been broody for several weeks. She has an egg that is close to hatching, and is being a royal scold to the other hens. "Screw this!", you can almost see the girls harrumph, "I'm going elsewhere!" This time "elsewhere" was behind two outdoor trashcans that are up against a cutaway on the backyard hill. Nice bed of oak leaves, too. They'd actually two different "wild" clutches going. The first one was found relatively quickly, and some eggs were appearing once more in the coop, but not at the same volume as before. This second one took over two weeks to find.

Once a clutch-in-the-wild is found, the hens (usually) go back to laying in the coop again. Crossing my fingers that they all finally do so. Crafty chickens!

Dogs Day Off

I guess the plumber accidentally let them out the gate yesterday morning. There's no other explanation. Spouse & I walked and drove around in the gawdawful Texas heat and dust, calling for the dogs. No response. Bandit's vet appointment that afternoon had to be canceled. Nothing left to do but leave the gates open in case the little ingrates made their way back home, and ready the printer for a dozen "Missing Dog" posters.

They finally came back in the late afternoon, looking worn out from head to toe. You gotta click on the pics to see their miserable expressions, sprawled out under the shade oaks and water misting hoses. Yep, I'm enjoying some good old-fashioned schadenfreude right now. Rotten dogs!

[Don't mind my grousing - I'm quite thankful they came home. No buckshot to remove or skunk spray to wash out. Just a little heat exhaustion, from the looks of it. 106°F yesterday!]

New Chick Digs, Part Four

The flies were getting awful, and the chicks were getting big. Once more, new chick digs were in order. We had an old wire run sitting unused in the back, so I dragged it out to the cedar patch where we keep the laying coop and food. Not only did it provide more height, it also gave two extra feet in depth. Perches, food, water, tarp cover in case of rain... yeah, that was the easy part. The geese provided assistance and monitoring, of course.

Next: getting the chicks from pen "A" to pen "B". I'm only one person, so made about oh, say, a dozen or more trips back & forth between the pens, juggling a succession of eighteen wriggling chicks and trying not to lose any. I was unsuccessful in that regard. Yep, chicks got loose. It wasn't just me not keeping a good grip... there was also a couple of small holes in the back that I didn't think would be a problem, and by golly, you know what's next: that's EXACTLY what four of them found, and made their escapes. A total of six chicks out running free ("FREEEEDOOOOM!!"), and I had to catch the little buggers.

It took about an hour to catch the majority (fresh corn on the cob is still chicken kryptonite), but there was one little Leghorn who just wasn't taking the bribe. After about a half-hour of cajoling and running him around the cedars, finally set up a boxed-sides trap of blankets and ran him into it. Yoink! Got him!

The chicks seem to be settling in and enjoying the new space. The geese are hanging out and watching the new denizens, like it's their private zoo. The older chicken girls aren't too interested yet, although Red (one of the older Americaunas) did give a young, loose Barred a lesson in pecking order when it came to the fresh corn.

Think I'm done for the day, and am glad not only for the chicks, but for myself. Now I don't have to listen to the strangled cries of adolescent roosters, trying to find their voices at dawn next to the bedroom window.

[Pics: the new digs, and the runaway Leghorn safely ensconced.]

My First Canning Project

It sounded exotic: Blood Orange and Grapefruit Marmalade. It also had fresh and candied ginger in the recipe. Something a little out of the ordinary, but also looked relatively easy. I bought the ingredients, then hemmed and hawed for a couple of days. Scary, this whole canning business thingy. Botulism, jams that don't set, and what if it didn't taste good? Oh my!

I finally got over myself, and gave it a shot. It's gonna take two weeks to jell properly, but initial taste tests are looking good. Here's the photo goodness, click for larger photos:


The gingers: candied and fresh. That little white grater at the bottom of the page? Worth its weight in GOLD. Spouse had been using a microplaner to grate ginger before, but I grated two tablespoon's worth in less than 30 seconds. Alton Brown finger-waggle against single-task tools be d@mned, this one's a keeper.


The ruby red grapefruit and blood oranges, ready to be pulsed. The thing I liked about this recipe is that you cut the fruit up into chunks, and then use the whole kit-and-kaboodle. No slicing away of pith or any other delicate maneuverings.


The citrus, pulsed. Looks kinda like hamburger meat. Mmm, hamburger marmalade...


The stovetop setup. Just right for the job. The water bath pot is the perfect size, covering two burners at once. The grey cooking pot to the right is our trusty Le Crueset, in which we bake bread, make soup, roast chickens, and now make marmalades. Good heavy pot, and the marmalade did not stick or burn. The back burner held the pan with the simmering canning jars, ready to be filled.


After being filled, then 15 minutes in the water bath, the end result. Gorgeous color. As I type, I'm hearing the canning lids being vacuumed-sealed into place by the cooling marmalade. The finger tip taste out of the pot wasn't as intense as I was hoping, but it had a nice balance of sweet and tart. I'm hoping the flavors deepen during the jelling process. I'll get back to you on that once the marmalades have set, in two weeks [Wait, TWO WEEKS? D@yumm!]

It Was Indeed One of THOSE Days

In the previous post, I briefly mentioned that the dogs got out. Chase, chase, nab; catch breath. I Twittered something to the effect of "Please don't let this be one of THOSE days!" Then not even 30 minutes later, Spouse noticed one of the geese staggering around. Uh-oh.

Thankfully the avian vet was heading into the office, and after describing Duchess's symptoms, he advised us to bring her in straight away. Turns out she was egg-bound, and had a huge soft-shelled egg stuck in her system. He drew it out & gave her a bunch of shots to aid in recovery*.

This in turn made us late for our plan to meet Joy and her family for lunch. I kept Joy updated on the vet happenings via text messages, and Joy took everyone to some of the local vineyards to buy us time. They then froze their butts off while waiting and holding our place in line at the BBQ joint. After lunch they beat an understandably hasty retreat, although we're not sure if it was to get away from possible bad-luck contamination, or to get away from the body odor. Spouse nor I hadn't a chance to shower or brush our teeth yet that day. Oof.

Later I got to figure out that I liked the smell of fresh goose poo MUCH better than rotting kitchen garbage. First, I forgot to take out of the car the towels Duchess had soiled during her ride to the vet. Nice warm car sitting in driveway + poo towels = an unmistakable Eau du Nature. Then in preparation to go into town, I put a bag of kitchen trash on the roof of the car between the rack mount bars, and planned on dropping the bag into the bin at the end of our driveway. Except I, uh, forgot to drop off the bag. Seven miles and 60 MPH down the road later, the bag finally bounces off the roof and rips apart on the road. D'oh! I hop out of the car, grab an old box laying on the side of the road, and gather as much trash as I can while dodging the occasional truck. Put the box into the car... and it reeked to high heaven. I drove another seven miles to the nearest gas station, dropped the box into the trash, and cleaned up as best I could in the bathroom sink.

With a deep breath and great trepidation, I considered the remainder of errands that needed to be done that day. If I continued, would I be a hazard to myself or others? Against the odds and all good sense, I decided to push on. The errands were successfully taken care of and I miraculously made it home in one piece.

I am now going to put this day to bed with a big bowl of chocolate-chip ice cream. That is, if we have any left.

[Pic: Blondie taking a dust bath. She was one of the few having a good day today.]

[*Duchess was looking more like her usual bright-eyed self as of this evening. The soft egg may have been a fluke, or it might be a genetic thing. The other geese are laying eggs with strong shells, and their feed is a laying ration with calcium. Hoping all will be well for her.]

Dude, Where's My Laptop?

Oh, that's right, I left it at home this evening. I didn't mean to leave it there. I met with friends "in town" in the late afternoon for dinner. Dinner turned into hanging out, hanging out turned into going over to someone's house, then a second glass of wine and one bowl of stupendously amazing ice-cream later, it was too late to go home and regroup for work. So I did what any self-respecting Gen-X slacker geek would do: crashed on the couch at work until it was time to punch in for the evening. A long explanation to say no laptop, no animal pics this post.

In the meantime, I'm reading (well, not tonight, because I left that at home as well) Temple Grandin's book "Animals in Translation" (thanks Mom K!). Only a few short chapters into the book, but already I understand why our geese think the color yellow is evil, and why Spouse and I see household dirt differently. More on the book, and the farm, once I get my @ss and head going in the same direction*.

Now, where's that coffee?


[*Don't hold your breath. This could take awhile.]

Hide and Go Seek The Eggs

Each time I'd find her clutch of eggs (outside and away from the nest boxes, natch) Cinnamon would find a new site. Her first nest (#1) was underneath one of the spiky plants on the hill. Then it moved to (#2) beneath the rosemary bushes, then (#3) behind a regular bush, (#4) over to another spiky plant on the opposite side of the porch stairs from the bush, then (#5) around the corner next to the fireplace chimney. It had now been a couple of weeks since I'd seen any of her eggs - coop or in the other spots - so I knew she had to be laying them in a new spot somewhere.

Finally, yesterday: the latest nest was found, same hill as her first spot, but under a different spiky plant. Had to hack and slash through the trees and brush to get to the area, but of course, that's what made the spot desirable in the first place, right? Safe from casual doggie blundering, too. How many eggs? Sixteen, count'em, SIXTEEN eggs all in one spot. Not all of them were Cinnamon's, either. My mistake, and the reason why she kept moving the clutch site? I kept taking ALL the eggs (yes, I'm a little slow, but finally figured it out). Cinnamon may have been bred in a hatchery, but she'd kept enough instincts in her little birdy noggin to figure out when a place wasn't "safe" to lay anymore. This time, I left a couple of the eggs in place to see what would happen. She laid another egg in the same spot later that day. Ha!

[Dang, how sad is it that I feel proud about outwitting a chicken?]

A week ago, I purchased decoy eggs from an antique stall - was surprised to find them cheaper there than at the feed store. Anyhow, replaced the few remaining fresh eggs in the latest nesting spot with one of the decoys. Please oh PLEASE let this be okay with Cinnamon, and that she'll continue laying in the same spot...

[Okay, now I'm begging favors from a chicken. Don't tell Spouse; he already questions my sanity.]

Scooooore!

I have to do these things when Spouse is not around. It reminds him too much of his father, a good-natured man who has no problem poking, prodding, and asking questions of complete strangers. Can't have that, quelle embarrassment! If we're together, I'll warn him ahead of time, "go elsewhere for a minute, as I'm about to do something embarrassing, okay?" and he'll go.

So: there's a commercial building under construction on the commute to/from work, about 15 minutes from the house. Just looking at the amount of wood in the scrap piles while driving past made my mouth water. Finally had the time to stop by yesterday and do That Embarrassing Thing I Do. "Is it okay if I take some of this scrap lumber?" "Ask the general manager."... "Hi, I'm in the process of building a chicken coop and just can't see buying new wood for it. Would it be okay to salvage some of your scrap?" "Sure, help yourself! Another guy came buy earlier in the week, salvaging as well." Booyah! Score!

I was able to get large pieces of outdoor-quality sheet plywood, short and long pressure-treated posts, the usual 2x4's, some large trim pieces, some really nice solid wood 2x12 pieces (should make terrific guestroom & outdoor side tables), and bestest of all: two small roof trusses, just the right size for the coop. There was plenty more I could have picked up, but something inside said "eh, don't be greedy, leave some for others." I packed everything into the trusty Subaru, and made my way home.

[Still need to obtain for the new & improved coop: second hand windows & door, more hardware cloth, and an actual plan.]

This was only my second time salvaging scrap lumber, but it's clear that an in-car toolkit should be put together to help in case I run into such bounty again. I already have bungee cords, netting and rope. Thinking I'll need to add gloves, claw hammer, pry/wonder bar, staplegun (so I can staple a red flag over the longest piece of salvage sticking out the back), fix-a-flat in case I run over a nail... anything else? Being this embarrassing could become a successful side career!

[p.s. Spouse isn't mortally embarrassed by his dad or me, but the forthrightness with strangers does make him a little squeamish. On the other hand, he sure did admire the haul, and wondered why I didn't get more lumber while it was available.]

The Grey Lady's Day Out

Thursday evening, around 6:00 PM...

Spouse: "The grey rooster took off up the hill; how do I get him back?"
Me, half-asleep: "*mumble* Corn on the cob. Chicken kryptonite. *snnnzzxxx*"

fifteen minutes later...

Spouse: "He took off through the property fence. I couldn't catch him. Here's a few feathers for your collection."
Me: "*mumble* Fox food. Nothin' more you can do... *snnnzzxxx*"

[Of course, at this point we thought the Grey Lady was a rooster, so I wasn't too upset.]

Fast forward to today, Saturday morning. Getting ready to do the chores, I take a look around the property and pens, doing a head check. The older chickens have managed to get outside the main pen already. One of the younger chickens is out as well. Thinking maybe it followed the older girls out... but wait. It's the grey chicken! Over 24 hours out in the "wild", without the flock, and s/he survived. No obvious damage. But what I thought were previously the curved tail feathers of a rooster were now mysteriously straight. Sex change operation? "Scared straight"? Who knows what adventures s/he had.

With this obvious display of personality and character, s/he is now named "The Grey Lady" until proof of gender arises (or drops out of her ovapositer).

[pic: the grey coloring in this pic isn't obvious. ah well.]