One of my guilty secrets is that I
love chickens. Not eating them, but the living creatures in all their feathered glory.
There are about a zillion varieties of chickens to love. Chickens with
pantaloons, chickens with hats and multi-colored ones. I’m sure they all have
fancy breed names, but you get my point.
For a moment chickens were trendy. The New York Times ran architecture pieces
about snazzy coops and Gwyneth Paltrow extolled their virtues. That time has
passed.
But while hipsters have moved on
from poultry to goat herding, I’ve remained loyal. (Who knows what will be the next chic livestock?
I’m predicting miniature cows. They are perfect; cute and so unhealthy that
they die just as their owners become bored with them.)
Part of my fascination with
chickens is that I can’t have any. Brittanies
are bird dogs, and over the years I’ve had eight of them. Brittanies that is.
Not all Brittanies are
birdie, a pheasant could have landed on Morgan and she wouldn’t have noticed,
but Poppy is a hunter. Among the critters she has proudly presented
to me are moles, voles, squirrels, rats, a couple of crows and dozens of mice.
A chicken wouldn’t stand a chance.
Even if I cooped the birds instead
of letting them roam, Poppy would make their lives miserable. She’d sit by
their house in a hunting point, just waiting for her opportunity to give them a
quick shake and break their necks. Poppy is a very efficient huntress.
One day, while surfing the web
instead of writing, I discovered mecca for all poultry lovers: The Murray
McMurray Hatchery. They raise fowl of
all types -you want a white Peacock? They got ‘em. Blue Guinea Hen? No problem.
An assortment of ducks? One click and it’s on the way. They ship all over the country.
Since I’m a good sister, and my
brother and sister-in-law have chickens and elaborate set up of electric
fencing to keep their dogs at bay, I arranged to have an assortment of chickens
sent as a belated birthday present. Unknown to me, McMurray ships by US mail
and the chicks went out over a holiday weekend. Needless to say, by the time
they reached Andy, it was a gift he’ll never forget.
Oops.
I did have chickens once. My
childhood barn was overrun with Banties. They were cute, and during the
winter most birds picked out a horse to sleep on. It was endearing and kept the
chickens toasty, but it was it kind of gross to clean when it was time to ride.
For reasons no one seems to
remember, we took two chicks homes The second night of having chickens in the
city, my father got a phone call from the police. Apparently a neighbor had complained about our livestock. Since we had a testy relationship with one of
the crustier geezers on the block, this was possible.
The call went on and on, and my dad
became more and more furious. They were chicks he kept insisting. The size of
hamsters. The cop didn’t budge. Until he did. Tthe “policeman” finally admitted
he was punking Dad. Dad had been set up by a former friend. It’s now a part of
family lore, but at the time we were concerned for Dad’s health.
Not long after, our experiment with
poultry was over and the chickens went back to the barn. Just as no one can
remember why we got them, why they left is an equal mystery.
That was my last close encounter
with a chicken. Occasionally I’ll moan about it, as was the case recently. Two friends and I were in the backyard
watching the horses and chatting. Jasper the Dane and Kathy’s German Shepard
puppy, Damali, were playing while we consumed a fair amount of adult beverages.
“What
this place needs is some chickens,” said Maureen.
“I can’t
have chickens, I have Poppy,” I said.
“You
could try having chickens! They’re so
cute. And eggs!” she insisted.
Then,
just like Beetlejuice, it appeared in the dusk: a dark red rooster.
I
thought I was seeing things. And then a hen showed up.
The horses noticed too and t
hey didn’t
like it. While the three humans watched with our mouths hanging open, Dezi, the
26-year old retired jumper started to herd the rooster. Lucy and even
29-year-old Murphy joined in, galloping around the pasture, albeit slowly,
after the squawking bird. With the precision of champion cutting horses on a
cow, my three retirees moved that rooster around the paddock.
The hen took a different tack and made a
beeline out of the field.
It
finally occurred to me that my neighbor had chickens, but not a rooster. Perhaps
she’d added to her flock. I went inside to call.
By that
time, the hen had caught the attention of the dogs. Kathy leashed Damali at the
first sight of the chicken. It never occurred to me to catch Jasper. He’s a
Great Dane, not exactly a breed known for their birdiness.
But somewhere
in the depths of Jasper’s ancestry was a Dane raised to hunt boar. Apparently when Jasper spied that hen, his
four-month-old brain decided that the hen was a small fluffy pig. By the time
Maureen pulled him off the screaming bird he had plucked her chest clean and
was going in for the kill.
Much to
his dismay, Jasper was quickly dispatched into the house, and I returned with
my neighbor. She had bought the birds that very day and was pissed that they
were loose. Even buzzed we were slightly smarter than chickens, so we quickly cornered
and caught the terrified birds and she took them home.
I still
really want a chicken, but I think if Maureen can conjure things just by saying
their names three times, it should be something more interesting than a rooster.
I saw a really cute photo of a wombat the
other day...
