I went out to collect eggs one morning and one of my hens was injured. It seemed like she got cornered and attacked in a nest box and then there was a free-for-all. After 20 minutes I finally caught her (after catching the wrong leghorn twice). Anyways, I brought her inside and set her up in the chickie hospital (aka: a dog crate). I had to get the toddler down for his nap before I could really tend to her.
I get the baby down and come back out to collect the chicken. She freaks out and I accidentally lose my grip. I have to catch her again and this time she’s in the house. About the time I’ve got her, a loud knock sounds at the door. It’s a Jehovah Witness. Not exactly the best timing. I decide that I am not putting this chicken down for anything and I don’t want him to wake the baby with his knocking, so I answer the door, chicken in arm.
The look on this man’s face was priceless. He stuttered a bit, apologized profusely for bothering me and then all but ran down the driveway. It wasn’t until I caught my reflection in the mirror as I closed the door that I realized what spooked him. Here I am holding a live chicken in a suburban home with my face, hands and clothes are splattered with chicken blood. All I can think it that he thought I was doing some odd cult ritual.
Only in a homesteader’s home.