Chicken in a Bucket.

I made arrangements to get an older hen from a local farmer last Friday, for pickup on Saturday. I really wanted a barred rock, and I wanted a year-old hen to show these new (often dense) hens how to be chickens. How to roost, where to lay eggs, etc. (btw, it's working).

But, I raced off to my parents on Saturday , leaving me without the older hen. Then, B volunteered to get the chicken. "Are you SURE??" I asked? B's not really had too much to do with the hens... "do you know what type I want?" He still volunteered to pick up the chicken Saturday morning.

I called him from my layover in Sacramento, and our conversation went like this:
Me: How was your morning? (expecting to get some chicken info)
B: Fine. (note the lack of chicken info)
Me: What'd you get up to? (Still expecting chicken info)
B: Oh, just some stuff. (again, lacking the obvious info)
Me: So did you get the chicken? (Enough of this batting around the bush talk)
B: Yup. (That's it?!?!)
Me: Did you introduce them yet like I told you how? (same topic, still digging for info)
B: Nope. (No? Huh?)
Me: So.... where is the new chicken then? (we do only have one coop)
B: In a bucket. (And he said this nonchalantly, like every day there are chickens in buckets in everyone's home)
Me: Um, where in a bucket? (the poor poor hen)
B: In my car. (Note: it was in the 40s outside, so no roasted hen... but still, the poor thing)
Me: Do you have a lid on the bucket? (If my 3-week old hens can jump out of their bin...)
B: Nope. (I'm banging my head against the wall at this point, and thankful that I took my car to the airport)
Me: So... what is covering the bucket o' hen? (she asks, wondering what's keeping her husband's car from becoming a chicken coop)
B: A t-shirt.

At this point, the conversation didn't last much longer, mostly because I was laughing at my husband's non-chalantness and the phrase "chicken in a bucket." I walked into the kitchen, where my parents were, and when they asked how B was, I just stated that he had a chicken in a lid-less bucket in his car. Then THEY started singing "there's a chicken in the bucket" to the tune of that song "there's a hole in the bucket, dear Liza."

I'm surrounded by mad people.

But, B did eventually introduce the hens (though, he did leave another bucket in the pen, which one chicken managed to get herself stuck under... nutbrain), and they are now getting along just fine. The big one tends to bully her way into the food, but it's not a problem.

She is a very pretty barred rock, and oh-so-soft. She let me pet her last night when I got home; she was half-asleep on her roosting pole. When she let out a soft "cluck cluck Hummmmm," I just about died with happiness. So lovely to hear the chicken clucky hum instead of my young hens' high-pitched whistley chirps.

Black, white and red, she is a fashionista. Especially with that feed all over her beak.
Discontent amongst the younger chicks for having a bigger bird. You'll grow, little one.
And, on Easter, the newbie gave us our first egg. Appropriate timing, I think. It's a light brown-- almost pink.