There is a book called "Attic Of The Wind," that place where all lost things end up. I wish the book had provided a map to that magical place because some critical pieces of documentation I needed have obviously gone there. I swear I have looked at every single piece of paper in this house (and it looks like Hurricane Matthew passed through here), and that paper is gone. Ah well, time to move on.
There is something so, what?, hard to describe when I pick up a still-warm egg fresh from the hen. This latest batch of pullets are almost the only hens to use the set of laying boxes Steve built. He also built roosting bars over in the corner, but the dumb clucks use the boxes to roost on instead. The older hens drop their eggs wherever...in the corner under the boxes, here, there, everywhere. Go figure.
It's just another example of how I wish I had better insight as to how creatures think. I understand the primal instincts for sex, food, survival, but why does the pair of tom turkeys hang out every morning in the goat pen instead of going to the meeting of the tribes under the oaks? They are often right in among the girls up in the corner and I have to look twice when I count too many "goats" there. I understand why Thing lives in the feed barn and even why he chewed through the lid of the scratch barrel, but why all the destruction? He throws everything moveable off the shelves, tears wrapping off stored packages, and creates havoc wherever he goes. Evil tempered creature.
Time to try to play catch-up with chores left untended while I messed around with paperwork. It doesn't take long for things to go to pot and sometimes it's overwhelming. It's a lost cause.