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Farm Chronicles: I’m Surrounded by Assholes

The trick to the management of asses is to simply accept that at some point, you are going to have deal with what comes out of it.

I’ve managed my ass since I was two or three. It took practice, but before I hit elementary school, no one else really had to think about my ass and I rarely considered what it was doing unless it wasn’t working. Speaking of that, why don’t you see chocolate ex-lax anymore?

Gabby has been potty trained since she was two. I still must take her bum (it’s still too cute to be an ass) into consideration to make sure I don’t run across the skid mark of ages when I do laundry.

Bob’s ass is only considered when it’s been in the bathroom too long and I need him to do something. I’m only too happy to say that that ass is well managed and does not need my consideration.

Frank, my ten-year-old malti-poo is house trained. His is mostly managed unless there is a stressful situation…

Which brings me to the newest ass in the house, Rarity.
Rarity is my new 10-week-old standard poodle puppy. She is black, fluffy, rambunctious, and she’s already dropping bombs as big as her head. The dog is already bigger than my full-grown dog and we are still in the middle of those chaotic months of house breaking. In between her scheduled breaks I find myself looking suspiciously at her butthole, waiting for the pucker the preludes the dump.

My days are now bound by her poop schedule. Her ass is my first thought when I wake up and my last thought when I go to bed. I covet large packages of paper towels and search for reviews about the absorbency and sturdiness of these products.

Can’t leave the house for long, Rarity has to poop.

If I do leave the house, I call to verify with Bob that she has in fact pooped.

Daily, I have to I yell at her to not eat chicken poop.

The older dog, Frank is stressed out by the new puppy so his poop routine is off. I took him out to do the business. He was doing the business. Then he came back inside and finished the business.

No matter how hard I try, at some point every few days, I am faced with a pile of poop somewhere in my house. The trick to avoid smelling the pungent bouquet is to breathe through your mouth from the back of the throat. Just get it done, flushed, and sprayed with enzyme killers. If you don’t, the bastards will go back and soil that spot again out of spite.

Outside the house, I must manage chicken asses. Baby chicks can poop so often and so copiously that it will seal their ‘vent’ (asshole) shut and kill them as they become full of shit. This must be cleaned post haste. The big chickens’ poop must be monitored because that is the best way to tell if one of them is sick. The list of pictures that I never thought I would google is growing. There are at least 4 different types of healthy chicken poop and 3 types of sick chicken poop. By the way, my chicken shit operation fine and healthy.

This is not a farm. It’s a shit factory.

Edited to add:
I’m also on the lookout for any assholes that lurking around my chicken coop. Raccoons are in abundance out here.

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Yolanda McGee View All →

An escape from the suburbs and corporate America spawned a journey into rural living. Writer, wife, mother, and local chicken lady, join me as I fail, fail, fail! and learn along the way.

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