of turkeys and the plague.

Someone once told me that when plagues come, the teachers are the first to die.

I have reason to believe this is true. Since I began teaching I have probably spent three quarters of the time ill. It’s not really a big surprise –being coughed and sneezed on by unwashed thirteen year-olds from 8:30 to 3:30 every day is not conducive to good health. Come evening a guy just wants to boil himself in bleach.

This latest round of flu - the third since Christmas - seems particularly vicious. I’m feverish and shaky, but I’ve come to work all the same thanks to a charming policy we have requiring teachers to find their own subs.

In my feverish state I’ve suddenly developed an odd urge – the urge to become a turkey owner.

Some people might think that sudden urge to be a turkey owner sounds a little crazy.

I dispute that statement.

The sudden urge to invade Poland is crazy. The sudden urge to engage trees in discourse is crazy. The sudden urge to have a bird of prehistoric appearance wandering the yard is eccentric.

“But Stu,” you ask, “What does your wife have to say about this?”

Dear reader, fear not. My beautiful wife is quite used to my sudden inexplicable schemes. Anyway, how could one not want a giant gobbling dinosaur in her yard? Why else would one move to the farm?

“But Stu,” you inquire, “What could you possibly know about keeping a turkey?”

So many questions, dear reader!

I will learn, my friend. When you have the urge to be self-sufficient it’s surprising what you can figure out.

Besides, I have lived in Alberta my entire life – anyone who has lived that long under the provincial conservatives knows a thing or two about turkeys.

so, last week i met these really hot chicks....

i have a confession to make. i like chickens.

i never really expected to enjoy chickens this much. chickens were always something that i saw once in a while, perhaps threw some blades of grass to at a neighbour's house, maybe saw at local agriculture events. they were enjoyable, but ultimately forgettable. having chickens is a whole different ball park.

when we picked up twenty little chicks last weekend i did it in the thought that this would be a good way to become a little more self-sufficient - you know, use up some food scraps and grow some eggs, live a little closer to the way our ancestors did.

now i understand how they lived so well without tv.

i've never been a tv fanatic. it's a good way to pass a few minutes in the evening after work and that's about it. i enjoy a little simpsons, sometimes a little david suzuki, but not much more than that.

having chickens is a bit like watching most extreme elimination challenge, the sopranos, and the parliamentary channel all at the same time - some of them are running a pointless obstacle course, some are plotting brutal revenge on their neighbours, and others are arguing over the leftover crumbs at the bottom of the box, all while someone else is falling asleep in the background.

of course, it's not that easy keeping these chickens. being but wee chicks yet it seems that every draft gives them a chill, that the pangs of hunger strike them constantly, or that their heat lamp is disturbing their beauty sleep. it keeps us on our toes. there are wood shavings mysteriously spreading throughout our house. my pockets are full of chicken feed. our cats have turned into death-plotting machines. but that's just a part of the fun.

so, i'll admit it. i like keeping chickens. you may scoff at me and my rural ambition, but i'm having a blast. besides, can you tell me when was the last time that a chicken crapped in your hand?

i can.