Anyone have a partially-used, fully-functioning, battle-tested hurricane chicken evacuation plan they’re willing to part with? You know … a chicken plan. Like what you do with your chickens should a big blowing tropical behemoth show up on your door step.
Because I’m a bit stumped. And the Thompson motto (borrowed from the Army Rangers) is simple: Never leave a man … or critter … behind.
Damn mottos!
It complicates things. These chickens complicate things! They’re a little over 8 weeks old — long-past the chick stage. Their combs are coming in, and they roam the yard eating bugs and grubs and hamburgers. (Hamburgers grow wild in my backyard.)
I never thought I would say this, but chickens are swell. They have a way of looking at you. It’s like you’re king of the world. Like you’re some all-powerful being who has come to give them wisdom … and food. (Mostly food.) They kind of curtsy and give you the floor and then sit there like you’re going to read them a story. Overall they’re great. They’ll weed the yard for you without a single complaint, and they’re perfectly content when my daughter takes them for a ride on the swing or teaches them circus tricks like hopping down stairs. Next: How to ride a motorcycle … through a flaming hoop!
But the ease of raising chickens gets slightly more complicated if there’s bad weather on the horizon.
For instance, they’ve already proven they’re not the brightest bird on the block. A couple of times during driving rainstorms I’ve found them huddled up against the wall of their run soaking wet … just a few steps away from the door of their house. They’re either stubborn or can’t do simple math. Outside + rain = drowned. Inside + chicken = dry happiness. Maybe I should give them a calculator.
So they’re bad at taking care of themselves in inclimate weather, and we have to run around scooping them up and chucking them in the house.
If they’re that dense in rain, what if we need to evacuate? What do we do with the fowl geniuses then? Hurricane Irene certainly woke me to this reality. I pulled a folder on hurricane preparedness when it looked like it might goose Florida and to my surprise … nothing on chickens! Plenty on batteries, canned peaches and toilet paper.
But what do you do with three brain-challenged pullets?
I’ve heard a few people say put them in the garage with a lot of food, water and magazines for light reading. Then pray everything works out. But I’m not sure I could do that. Mainly because I know those birds would somehow start up the chain saw and make a bigger mess than the storm.
Plus, I kind of like them. Winfrey makes pig noises when you pick her up. Ruby can slurp a worm the size of your index finger while successfully dodging her sisters. And Louise? Well, she’s just a goofy runt who will never get into college, but loves to talk sports and make me laugh.
So I’m determined to come up with a plan for them. Maybe there’s a hurricane shelter just for people with livestock. Maybe hotels that don’t accept “pets” have no problem with “barnyard animals.”
They came through the mail in a box with holes in it. Maybe I can UPS them to Omaha to wait out the storm.
Maybe I’ll throw them in the car and cart them all down to my father’s house in Tampa. It’s on a lake and they could chase possums and scare urban sprawlers. I can already picture myself pulling in down there — two chickens on my lap fighting to hang their heads out the window. The third on the dashboard trying to catch the windshield wiper. (Remember: Not that bright!)
Maybe I’ll build an emergency escape coop for my brother’s motorcycle trailer. We’ll rescue his bikes and my chickens. (Could you imagine the sight of us rolling down the highway?) And hey, that fits in with the next circus trick we’re planning.