pul·lus   [puhl-uhs]
–noun, plural pul·li  [puhl-ahy]
a young bird; a chick.
Origin:
1765–75; < NL, L: from pullulāre to sprout

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Chapter 3: Chickenstein (also known as The Post-Modern Prometheus)

It is day 20 here on the farm (also known as my bathroom where the brooder holding the ten chicks is located). The chicks' food intake has more than tripled in the last two days. I have certainly noticed their steady growth over these past couple of weeks; however, this increased consumption has put me back into "Got to keep the sky propped up somehow" mode.


You see, my supply of starter feed is precariously low at this point and, though more is being delivered tomorrow, I fear that by the time it arrives I will have run plumb out and the chicks, like the eagle that made a continual meal of Prometheus's liver, will have turned on me. Plus, there is that over-active imagination of mine, which is charged with thoughts of opening the bathroom door tomorrow morning to be greeted by ten chicks that have surpassed me in height and are cheeping death threats at me in three human languages, as well as their own poultry patois.


I suppose it was all "I'm going to get me some of that Zeus-fire" of me (also known as "cocky" in chicken-inspired speak) to think that I could raise eight more chickens than originally planned without incident. All that cuteness had to come at some cost.


And so, it is a tense night here on the farm. (Insert sound of thunder here.) What will tomorrow morning bring? A pummeling by hungry pullets that have tripled in size overnight? A frantic run to Belmont Feed & Seed? Or some new way to enjoy this adventure, despite my missteps along the way?


Moral of the Story: Don't just count your chickens after they hatch. Multiply that number by the number of pounds on the bag of feed you're using for the appropriate timeframe—then double!

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