Today it is 22 degrees in the sunny areas of the yard, and we have, thankfully, been spared Juno’s effects. After our 110 + inches in four storms last winter, we are quite happy about that. The unhappy news is I still have 2 roosters and a hen living in my mudroom. They’ve graduated from the fireplace hearth into a dog crate that once fit my 120 pound greyhound. They are happily ensconced in my mud room – which doubles as the main door into my log cabin farmhouse. I love my log cabin – primarily because it smells like a wood fire and logs and home. At least it did until this week. Now it smells remarkably like chicken poop – BLECH!

When my soft hearted self agreed to offer the two roosters safe haven for 12 weeks – who think it is their right to hack-spit – a dooooo at 2 a.m – I was clearly delusional. Oh, I know I have raised ducks in my garage and several flying squirrels live in my attic, but really, two roosters singing at all hours of the night and flinging poop along with the poor hen that resides with them has about done me in.  Today, I declared war. Not on the birds themselves, but the cage and the area surrounding the cage. I decided that if they were going to nest in my home for three more weeks, I was going to make sure they didn’t thief my lovely smell. My family watched in horror as I removed the detritus necessary for what could only be called a war on dirt – and poop. Granted, nothing can ever rival the amount of poop 6 adorable little ducks can create in a garage overnight, but this was a close second.

One by one my family members disappeared. This happens on most every Saturday when they see the cleaning supplies emerge, but they sensed today was different and went one step further than hiding – they left. Yup, walked right out of the house (my husband was the one holding the keys) and told me to call when it was safe to return. I wanted to cry, but I knew it was for the best. It was time to put myself in the mama hens shoes and go into full nesting mode. Anyone who has ever carried young knows what this means. I went a bit crazy.

In the 22 degree weather – I flung open my back door and began to drag anything lighter than a refrigerator to the driveway. After several failed attempts and lots of bad words I managed to get the attachment thingy on the vacuum cleaner and I went to to work. I sucked up feathers, I sucked up poop. I Lysoled the frack (if I can borrow a Lisa word) out of the place and then went back for more. At one point I saw all three birds cowered in fear in their cage along with the greyhounds who had taken cover in the only safe place – behind the chicken cage curled up next to the washing machine. Apparently they presumed no towels would be harmed in the fray of poop removal. They were wrong.

Two and one half hours later, my mud room shone. The dogs tentatively crawled out of hiding and went back to drooling on the bed and the rooster – thinking this was some sort of celebration – begin his routine of cock- a spit a, cock-a dddooooo, cock – a dododooodle doooooooo !!!

“OMG! He got the words right,” I thought to myself.

Minutes later my family returned carrying coffee and muffins – because they are very, very smart people – and quickly vanished from view in case the clean they were seeing wasn’t truly clean enough for the crazy lady.

“Mom,” my son Ian said. “It smells weird in here.”

“Good weird or bad weird?” I asked.

“Just weird. It smells like, well, I think it smells like babies.”

“Babies?” I asked incredulously, “How do you know what babies smell like?”

“From Emily,” he answered.

Huh, the boy was right. My house did smell like babies. Lovely, clean, happy smiling babies that arrive after their mommies have cleaned the house within an inch of its’ life while nesting. And that, my friends, is why the roosters and their hen, and the dogs and the cat and canary and the llamas and the alpacas and the flying squirrels are still allowed to live in and around my home – they make my house smell like babies, and babies make me very, very happy.