Yesterday, Alicia and I escaped from the iron grip of book-keeping and chick brooder construction, and hit the big city. Between chilling Portland rain showers and sporadic bursts of sun, we explored all the lovely little shops along NW 23rd Street. Naturally, we started the day at my favorite little bakery, Two Tarts and then after buying makeup, jeans, hats and lunch and watching an Omnimax movie, we ended up drinking martinis in a James Bond-themed lounge in Northeast Portland. It was heaven.
Meanwhile, back on the ranch….
…Keith was herding chickens. I was sipping my dry martini when I received this text message:
“… then they all got scared and knocked the fence down. This picture shows me moving the whole fence to try to get them in, and all of them escaping to the lower pasture. Fun times!”
Fun times, indeed, Keith. Better you than me, boy. I’m glad I’m sipping a strong alcoholic beverage while you chase poultry around the paddock.
Did I mention that Keith was supposed to be part of a phone meeting for work at precisely the moment all the hens escaped?
“It was fun but I had a phone meeting to go to at 6 and I missed the beginning. Luckily it was canceled last minute. So in fact I didn’t miss anything.”
The take-home message appears to be:
- I leave the farm for 12 hours and chaos ensues.
- My presence appears to be required here, thus I may never again be able to go to Portland for makeup & martinis
- Keith puts chickens above conference calls. I fear for his job.
- Those chickens are shifty little stinkers.