I just learned this word: Chook.
Chook, chook, chook.
I learned the word while sighing over home steading blogs. I was sighing because some lucky people have chooks, also known as chickens, scratching and pecking, making eggs and natural fertilizer, and I don't.
I suppose I could get some, but first I need to figure out how to keep precious little chooks safe from raccoons,snakes, roaming feral dogs, roaming neighbor's dogs, hawks, and the many, many coyotes who chat it up all night long from a number of suspiciously close locations encircling my property.
And then there are my own predacious canine companions, one of whom has come this close to catching and eating an actual wild turkey. Said wild turkey weighed twenty or more pounds and was capable of a reasonable, if wobbly, version of flight. And, being of the wild variety, I assume it was not unfamiliar with predators. And yet, my dog-girl bit it and tasted tail feathers before it flew off in a flurry of down and panic.
So no chooks until I build a suitable razor wired, alarmed, bunkered encampment.
While I plan my chook encampment, I am all envy for my good friend's urban chook flock, pictured above. Those little birds are so stinking cute I can hardly stand it. Soon my friend will be in egg and chicken poo heaven. Breakfasts will delight; gardens will thrive; all will be right.