Windwalker79
Chirping
There’s peace on the homestead... until someone cracks open a watermelon.
I learned early on that my ducks, chickens, and goose all have one thing in common: a totally unhinged obsession with watermelon. It doesn’t matter if it’s 100 degrees or a cool spring morning — as soon as they see that bright red flesh and hear the first thunk of me dropping a slice into the enclosure, the flock transforms into a feathery stampede.
It starts with the ducks — waddling over like they’ve got an appointment with destiny. They get first dibs because they’re the fastest... but also the messiest. Watching them slurp watermelon is like watching toddlers go after a popsicle — pure chaos.
Then the chickens arrive like a squad of little velociraptors, pecking with speed and precision, flinging sticky red chunks all over the run. You can tell who the favorite hen is that day based on who gets the best spot at the rind.
And then comes the goose. Regal. Serious. Territorial. She doesn’t rush... she claims. She waltzes in like she owns the farm (which, let’s be honest, she kinda does) and bulldozes her way to the middle of the melon. One honk is usually enough to clear a path.
There’s drama. There’s pecking. There’s juice-covered beaks and flapping wings. But by the time the last bite is gone, everyone’s quiet again — full, happy, and slightly sticky.
I’ve learned to bring extra slices, just to avoid the bird brawls. It’s not just a treat — it’s an event.
So yes, we raise birds for eggs and homestead value… but let’s be honest — some days, it’s just for the entertainment of watermelon mayhem.
I learned early on that my ducks, chickens, and goose all have one thing in common: a totally unhinged obsession with watermelon. It doesn’t matter if it’s 100 degrees or a cool spring morning — as soon as they see that bright red flesh and hear the first thunk of me dropping a slice into the enclosure, the flock transforms into a feathery stampede.
It starts with the ducks — waddling over like they’ve got an appointment with destiny. They get first dibs because they’re the fastest... but also the messiest. Watching them slurp watermelon is like watching toddlers go after a popsicle — pure chaos.
Then the chickens arrive like a squad of little velociraptors, pecking with speed and precision, flinging sticky red chunks all over the run. You can tell who the favorite hen is that day based on who gets the best spot at the rind.
And then comes the goose. Regal. Serious. Territorial. She doesn’t rush... she claims. She waltzes in like she owns the farm (which, let’s be honest, she kinda does) and bulldozes her way to the middle of the melon. One honk is usually enough to clear a path.
There’s drama. There’s pecking. There’s juice-covered beaks and flapping wings. But by the time the last bite is gone, everyone’s quiet again — full, happy, and slightly sticky.
I’ve learned to bring extra slices, just to avoid the bird brawls. It’s not just a treat — it’s an event.
So yes, we raise birds for eggs and homestead value… but let’s be honest — some days, it’s just for the entertainment of watermelon mayhem.
