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When I moved in, there were three clay flower pots on each of these weathered old church pews outside the cellar.

I’m down to two.

After watching a hen jump up and break one this morning. (The pots are planted, by the way, with marigolds. Which had just sprouted.)
Offending hen:

I give up. I know when I’m beaten. And broken. The flower pots will have to be set on the ground forevermore.
Where the chickens can just reach in and dig them up.
It’s just win-win for them, isn’t it?
Posted by Suzanne McMinn on April 25, 2012Registration is required to leave a comment on this site. You may register here. (You can use this same username on the forum as well.) Already registered? Login here.
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"It was a cold wintry day when I brought my children to live in rural West Virginia. The farmhouse was one hundred years old, there was already snow on the ground, and the heat was sparse-—as was the insulation. The floors weren’t even, either. My then-twelve-year-old son walked in the door and said, “You’ve brought us to this slanted little house to die." Keep reading our story....
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Think chicken fencing is the only way to go, but it won’t happen here this year. Maybe on the new property I can do it this year, then I can move them there and they can survive and there aren’t any flowers to dig, only elephant garlic.
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Courtesy of the old “Blondie” radio show.