It was so hot today, our chickens were panting. They held their beaks half-open, enough that you could see their tongues. Either they were panting, or they were in awe of my presence. They come running the minute they hear a door open. Front door, basement door, garage door, car door...any old door will do. I confess to spoiling them with handouts. They are not picky chickens.
Their preferred treat is cantaloupe. If it doesn't split open when I toss it off the porch, they peck their way to the center. The seeds appear to be the most appealing to a chicken's taste buds. They also love cereal and bread and tortillas and strawberry tops and corn cobs. The chickens clean the cobs, then the goats get the rest. They are efficient garbage-disposing machines. We repay our fowl friends by stealing their eggs and depriving them of families. Too bad, so sad. That's what happens when you're born low down on the food chain.
If only they could be trained to partake of the Dolomedes tenebrosus before it reaches the house.