Funny math

I've never been particularly great with math, but this one has me totally confused.

Every respectable rancher has an accurate total count of his/her livestock. I raise free-range chickens. Chickens are poultry. Poultry is considered livestock. Livestock is raised by ranchers. Argue if you'd like, but I'm gonna roll with it. Today, I just happen to like how it sounds.

You see the mood I'm in? Consider yourself warned.

At the moment, the big question in my mind is not whether I am a rancher, but whether I am a respectable rancher.

Exhibit A: The notebook that holds a very detailed accurate count of my birds.


Once I had all the wrinkles ironed out last fall, I was left with ten Buff Orpington hens, four mixed breed hens, three Barred Rock hens, and a partridge in a pear tree big Red Rooster.

Minus one.

My hefty old axe was not involved this time, and neither was the stupid green plastic handled machete. I swear (usually not on the blog) it's the truth, people.

The plot thickens:

When I closed up the coop after my goofy feathered rototillers put themselves to bed last night, I did a quick count because it was my apparent lack of a count the night before that led to the day's tragic circumstances. (I found one of the hens frozen outside the barn.) Yes, I'm feeling mighty guilty about it, but I'm also blaming the rooster for not keeping track of all his girls.

Ten Buff Orpington hens, four mixed breed hens, two Barred Rock hens, and a Red Rooster.

Huh!? It was a Buff Orpington that had kicked the bucket!

Are you still with me?

In complete disbelief, I counted them again, out loud. Ten Buff Orpington hens, four mixed breed hens, two Barred Rock hens, and a grumpy Red Rooster.

This is kindergarten-level math, for sure, but I had to count them yet again. What on earth!?

I turned to a very annoyed King Red and asked him what the heck was going on in his kingdom. He gave me the stink-eye and demanded to know why the heck I hadn't filled his royal barley bucket yet.

Exhibit B: Rooster with way too much attitude.


I headed back across the yard through -17F windchill weather without my coat (because this was supposed to be a quick trip to the barn). I returned with a five gazillion candle-power (or something like that) flashlight. Don't laugh! This thing is fantastic when you're playing "Where's Waldo" with chickens in the dark. I could probably flag down an airplane with it, if I really wanted to.

The missing Barred Rock turned up in the first place I checked. Believe me, this is not normally the way this game is played. Checkmate! I tossed her into the coop and His royal Highness King Red glared at me.

Ten Buff Orpington hens, four mixed breed hens, three Barred Rock hens, and a Red Rooster who thinks he owns the universe.

Have you been paying attention?

I have exactly the same number of chickens as I did the previous day.

I'm rather confused about the whole matter.

This is not an easy thing to screw up. Honestly. I count them almost every single evening when I close the coop door. Sometimes my sweet husband locks them up for me, and once in awhile even he counts them. And if, if it is somehow possible that one of the Buff Orpington ladies was spending her nights away from the coop, I would certainly have seen her out in the yard on at least one occasion before I let the flock out their palace in the morning.

They tricked me for months. Months!

Whether I'm a rancher, respectable or not, I'm really not sure.

I am quite sure that I'm a mother.

I, uh.... I have three children. At least I think so. Maybe I'd better go count them.