Ode to Fuzzy Britches
For those of you thrill seeking Snagley followers, who did not know,
My son at one time had a chicken named Fuzzy Britches.
Poor Fuzzy was not a normal chicken; she never matured properly and always was a little off.
Her beak overgrew into a huge overbite that I had to routinely trim in order for her to eat, Her toenails would overgrow to the point she could not walk if I did not trim them.
She was blind in one eye and could not see out of the other. Her feathers did not mature properly and left her with fuzz around her behind and legs thereby bestowing her moniker of Fuzzy Britches. She never laid an egg.
On a normal farm she would have been chicken and dumplings, at my place she became a pet.
The kids would carry her around under their arms, and in baskets, in the little red wagon, and I swear Son #2 carried her around as he rode his bike through the yard.
We built Fuzzy her own pen so the other chickens would not kill her, (chickens are mean).
Alas, one day I went up to her pen to distribute the morning corn, and she was dead as a hammer. As I explained to my distraught son, “sometimes chickens die”. A funeral followed with long mournful eulogies.
Since then we have acquired a white bantam hen named Pearl. Son #2 has had quite a time keeping this one alive. He had to beat a Red Tailed Hawk off of pearl with a stick, so pearl now lives in a cage on my back porch. (You might be a redneck if)
Pearl is a little larger than a pigeon, they have tamed her to the point she will sit calmly in your lap as we sit in the swing. Quite cool.
You ought to hear the story of Son #2 fighting a hawk with a stick, quite entertaining.
Snagley out
My son at one time had a chicken named Fuzzy Britches.
Poor Fuzzy was not a normal chicken; she never matured properly and always was a little off.
Her beak overgrew into a huge overbite that I had to routinely trim in order for her to eat, Her toenails would overgrow to the point she could not walk if I did not trim them.
She was blind in one eye and could not see out of the other. Her feathers did not mature properly and left her with fuzz around her behind and legs thereby bestowing her moniker of Fuzzy Britches. She never laid an egg.
On a normal farm she would have been chicken and dumplings, at my place she became a pet.
The kids would carry her around under their arms, and in baskets, in the little red wagon, and I swear Son #2 carried her around as he rode his bike through the yard.
We built Fuzzy her own pen so the other chickens would not kill her, (chickens are mean).
Alas, one day I went up to her pen to distribute the morning corn, and she was dead as a hammer. As I explained to my distraught son, “sometimes chickens die”. A funeral followed with long mournful eulogies.
Since then we have acquired a white bantam hen named Pearl. Son #2 has had quite a time keeping this one alive. He had to beat a Red Tailed Hawk off of pearl with a stick, so pearl now lives in a cage on my back porch. (You might be a redneck if)
Pearl is a little larger than a pigeon, they have tamed her to the point she will sit calmly in your lap as we sit in the swing. Quite cool.
You ought to hear the story of Son #2 fighting a hawk with a stick, quite entertaining.
Snagley out
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