Ever have a curiosity about what a used-to-be-suburbanite (that’s someone who lived in the suburbs her whole life) does every morning on her farm?
That’s really very sad. Sorry. You’re going to find out anyway. Hee. Hee. (Don’t tell my kids I said I was sorry and then didn’t mean it. I’ll be in big trouble)
First, I get on my boots.
With all the mud around these parts, boots are essential. Honestly, I did try to go for the cute factor here. But with two years of wear, mud and poop, they’ve sort of lost their curb appeal. A girl can try.
Yes, these footwares of wonderousness are well used.
Second, on the way to the barn, in my oh-so fashionable boots, I let the chickens out of their coops.
Here I am opening the ‘lid’ to this chicken coop.
If you strain your eyes, you can see in the center of the picture there is a little door opening. I open the lid to the coop so I can open that tiny little door and let our feathered egg laying friends out for the day. Thanks to Chez Misty’s husband for designing this fabulous coop and then GIVING it to us. I love this coop.
“Good Morning, girls.” Yes, I actually do say this every morning. I know. I’m silly. These girls are Americauna chickens. They lay blue-colored eggs. Very pretty, indeed.
Check out those fluffy cheeks.
Chicken Coop #2 built by Renaissance Man over 5 years ago back when none of us knew anything about fowl. It has held up really well. This year R-Man is going to build us a BIG coop, so all the girls can hang together.
And finally, I head to the barn to take care of the goats.
Afterall, they’re waiting.
They know when they see me let out the chickens, they’re up next.
Sweet Xcel, “It’s our turn now, right?”
Rambunctious Sadie, “Yeah. Speed it up, lady. We’re hungry.”
Be on the look out for Part 2 of Morning Chores Pictorial. I’ll be wading my way through the mud and making my way up to the milking parlour. I know. I can hear the excitement in your voice. It’s going to be great. Just beware. You might have to look at a picture or two of poop. Hey, we’ve got animals here. It happens.
Until next time.
Love, The Goat Lady