The Lament for Little Gray

I was over having supper at my parents' house, and somehow the topic of chickens came up.

     "I'll miss the chickens," Dad said, a note of regret in his voice.
     "Chickens? What do you mean?" I asked. My parents have put a lot of work into taking care of their flock, with frequent updates in the family email about their status. I was confused.
     "It's too bad about Little Gray," Dad continued to muse. "She was the only one with any personality." His voice grew soft as his mind wandered over his past memories with the chickens.
     "Sometimes when I was working on the coop, she would wander over and peck around by me, just to see what I was doing."
     "Dad, dad!" I broke in on his reverie. "What happened to Little Gray?"
     "Let's just say she's in a better place now."

Apparently "personality" does not qualify a chicken for "alive" status. Somehow my father neglected to mention in the last family email that he and Mom have gotten rid of all their chickens this past week. Events such as this are usually a big happening in my parents' lives. However, the omission does make sense when you consider that advertising the fact that you just massacred 4 chickens, (the last dregs of the flock, excluding Little Gray) is generally not something you bring up in a cheery family update. In any case, I think I've come to terms with it now. My parents are simply trying to simplify their lives...with a little help from Mr. Ax.

I can only hope that some day far in the future, when my father steps out under the endless stars to listen to the quiet sounds of a soft summer night, he will pause a moment, and shed a tear for Little Gray, the Hen That Wouldn't Lay.

The Way of the Chicken

My parents are very law-abiding people. However, when it comes to chickens their moral fiber turns a bit soluble. The flock has grown to illegal proportions and shows no signs of decreasing.

On Saturday I was shown The Way of the Chicken by my dad as part of my house-sitting duties. We all know I don't get along with chickens, but I felt like I could give it another shot for my parents. They seem to really like these chickens as they keep adding more of the stinky buggers. Anyway, as Dad described it, chicken care seemed fairly straightforward. Water, feed, lock them in coop for the night, let them out in the morning. Repeat for a week as my parents bask on the deck of an Alaskan cruise ship.

On Sunday I woke up with a start to the incessant and uproarious bawking of the massive flock. They also woke my baby sleeping by the window, but I left her crying, threw some clothes on, and dashed out to the backyard. In the midst of putting three kids to bed, I had forgotten all about locking the chickens up the night before and making sure they were fed and watered. Thoughts of wild animals attacking the coop, starving chickens collapsing, and angry neighbors phoning to complain about the noise all ran through my mind. I made it up to the chicken pen, threw open the gate, and....nothing. The chickens magically stopped their fiendish racket and wandered around idyllically scratching in the dirt. I checked their coop. Nothing. I checked their food and water. Full. Annoyed, I threw some grain on the ground for them so I could feel like I had done something. They dutifully ignored it and went back to their chicken business. Apparently they simply desire a human presence at 6 in the morning.*

I wearily went back inside and surveyed my new black flip-flops coated in chicken leavings, thinking about how much cheaper and easier buying free-range chicken, organic, non-muck coated eggs from the store would be then running this chicken coop. Raising your own chickens should be placed in the same category as wearing Spandex, posting about bathroom trips on Facebook, and throwing fruit into green smoothies without peeling it. I call this category, "Just because you can, doesn't mean you should."




*I later confirmed this with my little brother Joseph.

Feathered Fiends

I have met the enemy, and they are Chickens. They make me nervous. Ever since my cousins and I tenderly raised a chicken from a teeny little egg to a cute fluffy chick named Percy to a killer bantam rooster with death in his eye who liked to spur and stab our legs til we durst not stir from the farmhouse without waders and a large stick for self-protection, I have had chicken issues.

Tonight my little brother, the chicken-keeper, is off camping so I was left in charge of putting my parents' herd of chickens in the coop for the night. "So how do I get them in, Joseph?" "Oh, they go in by themselves and you just have to close the door," he answered casually. Hmmm. Sounds suspiciously easy.

A few minutes ago I walked up to their fenced-in enclosure and let myself in. One chicken sauntered over to the gate I had opened and positioned herself there in the corner, her beady eyes following me as I ventured deeper into their domain. I hiked up my pajama pants and gingerly tiptoed around the plops of chicken poop. Shouldn't have worn flip-flops. I looked up to find 16 chickens watching me. "Shoo-shoo!" I pathetically flapped at them. A small contingent of younger chickens ran off. Weren't they all supposed to be cozily lined up in their coop? I gazed around and saw the group of younger chickens peering out at me from the shadows beneath the pine tree. Earlier they had probably huddled together in the coop, talking in their secret chicken language about their planned ambush. "The Weak One is left alone to care for us. We will count coup tonight!"

A branch broke and I whirled around. Were they closing in behind me? The chickens all scattered a pace or two and pretended to look at various small objects. I moved back towards the gate. The flock nonchalantly followed me, pausing to sharpen their talons on large rocks laying about. One particularly devious-looking chicken sidled closer to my leg. She seemed to be eyeing the two inches of skin exposed by my hitched-up scrubs. I could see a hungry gleam in her beastly eyes. Flesh! It was time to get the cuss out of there.