Counting Chickens

The malaise that now has blanketed life in general threatens to hang around for awhile. My normally healthy appetite for news has dulled. He who must not be named was supposed to fade off into the annals of ridiculous U.S. history as we looked forward to cementing Barack Obama's legacy and prepared to watch Hillary take us all on Adventures in Democracy. News? Who wants it? My goal now is to shrink my life into a small, manageable project that need not be unduly affected by events beyond my control. Do your worst, demon spawn, I hope not to notice.

To that end, I walked north a short distance to a sheep and chicken farm that fronts on the Pan-American Highway with a tree-lined dirt road announced by a rectangular arch sporting a large "V."  It is the business address of a "Mister Vond," or Vaughan. People say Vs like B so it is common to hear, "I work for Mister Bond." I will elucidate when I learn his proper appellido. He is also referred to as Don Tomaso.

My hope is to introduce myself and ask if he will sell me a few bales of hay for my gallinero. The dirt road leads back and curves around to reveal several farm buildings, and a security station, where I explained myself to the handsome young guard. Mister V. is not there at the moment. Would I care to sit and cool myself and wait awhile? Yes, indeed. Eventually, the guard suggests that I return early today - Saturday - and see if I can make a deal.

Later, that afternoon, Maria José and I carry the dog crate to Las Esquinas to meet her mother Rosalia (like my mother's name, Rosalie, but with an "a") and brother Roger. We board a bus to Niquinohomo in search of red chickens. The ticket is $,24 each. In Niquinohomo, the chicken dealer has not young birds, and no red ones, either. But we walk on and find another chicken farm, where there are hundreds of eight-week pullets and although they are not zackly red, they are reddish brown and white. They have blue eyes. I buy ten.

Earlier this week, Jonathan finished the chicken pen. He separated out a small stall for a nanny goat, when one becomes available, and added a 15-foot run along the wall, with shade plants and some greenery. I bought a feeder and 100 pounds of meal.

Jonathan ripped boards with a dull disk that seemed to burn its way through the grain.

Pretty nice!

These birds are pretty happy, I'll bet. No more crowded, smelly, concrete warehouse.

Notice the hay? This morning, I returned to Mr. V's farm. He still was not there, but the muchachos sold me four bales for 120 cordobas, about a buck a bale. I may return later and buy a leg of lamb as a Christmas present for somebody. A good neighbor to have.