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A true egg story

Tags: sandy house maine

Sandy is an avian American found street walking at night in a lesser part of Sanford Maine. Now she is the grande dame of a small but productive multi-ethnic flock, doing her part to encourage the other hens as they labor.

Let me go back to the beginning: Over a year ago I was visiting my brand new pair of mothers I had just gotten when I found Sandy trying to cross the street at night. No that’s not far enough, let me go back to the VERY beginning . . . there once was an egg, who met a sperm, and they made a zygote. But the egg and sperm were still in high school and the zygote became a blastocyst that would need shoes for the next 225 months. As this was the dark ages of Camelot, the Catholic church got to draw a name of of a hat of a pious yet childless couple and present them with a bouncing demon puddle splasher whose first and only word was NO. Are we far enough back yet?

Flip forward through 53 years punctuated by death, detention, depression and divorce until the Catholics finally offer up my address for an outrageous price to my only non-mother blood relation. Using their outdated and inaccurate mother-data provided me and my incredible stalking superpowers, I managed to locate my biomoms address in less than an hour. Of all the US states in all the world, my biomom had married a woman from Maine and they had moved to less than an hour away from where I would eventually make landfall. Being the instant gratification brat that I am, in lieu of sending them a cablegram, I drove to their House and rang the doorbell. Very quickly my dance card went from zero to sixty, with biosiblings and aunts and non bio siblings and other extended relations yielding a Marvel universe worthy family tree.

Back to Sandy…remember Sandy? Every few weeks I take a run over to my mothers’ house to bang some yarn and stock up on eggs. One night coming back I find Sandy wandering around in the bike lane at an intersection. After corraling her into a collapsible cat carrier, I brought her back to my mother’s hen house. With her trimmed beak and wing feathers, she had obviously escaped from a truck taking her to no place good. It took a few weeks of rest and ‘recooperation’ for her to join her new flock where there are no expectations for her to take part in the production aside from moral support. Although every so often she pops out an egg just to prove she still has what it takes.



This post first appeared on EraserGirl, please read the originial post: here

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A true egg story

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