My Gramma had chickens. The whole egg laying process was magic to a little kid--and the thing about a chicken running around after you cut it's head off--coooool! So fifty years later I have chickens--seven little hens live in an enclosed poultry palace a friend built so none of my chickens will be varmint food like my last gurl--a rescue chicken from Tyson's foods. I've had the gurls since they were three day-old peeps--ordered from a hatchery and shipped in the mail. I won't say the mail order process is the kindest thing to do to a tiny baby bird--but I had to make sure my chickens were gurls cause not everybody is as fond of chickens as I am.
The very swell girl that's staying with us while she goes to school is scared of my gurls. She says she's afraid of the sharp things on their faces. The guy next door was traumatized by a chicken when he was 8--something about being chased around a car by a headless chicken. He doesn't much like chickens either. Then there's the neighbor out back that lets his yappy dogs out at all hours to bark but didn't like it cause my rooster usta crow at 5 AM. Rooster only crowed for a minute or two. Frikkin dogs bark for HOURS! I don't have my rooster anymore. Wish I could say the same for his dogs. I think every backyard should have a couple of chickens. Keeps the mosquito population down and they make beautiful yard ornaments.
So what makes a, for the most part, unremarkable gramma a chicken lover? Dunno. I grew up in North Carolina and I'll confess--I still get a yen for fried chicken every now and again (tho I'd NEVER eat my gurls.) The egg laying process is still magic and I LOVE the brown, pink and blue eggs they create. Don't eat eggs--well--except in brownies. Don't like the texture. My children at nursery school adore the gurls--even tho they don't believe they are the same baby chicks they saw a few months ago. They love the soft feathers, are wary of the pokey feet and beaks, and relate to the diapers the gurls wear to school (yeah--chicken diapers. Check it out on YouTube.)
I love going out in the morning to watch last nights stale leftovers become a chicken's gourmet breakfast. Week old lasagna--Gurls decimate it. Church social greenbean casserole--Yummed down (and if they had chops to lick, they would.) Half a loaf of dried up bread that SOMEBODY forgot to close up--GONE! They're also fond of grass clippings, old cottage cheese, anything a meal worm can infest (especially the meal worms infesting it), large and small bugs, cat food, pet food in general, and pretty much anything I'd eat. I did watch them turn up beaks at a mouse our little cat caught and left in the yard. I don't believe for a second they don't like the taste of mouse--just full. I know chickens will eat each other if one of them dies and the rest are hungry. A chicken is the ultimate green machine,
I like chickens cause they're honest. I didn't say NICE--but scrupulously honest. They're like two year-olds--totally in it for themselves--no excuses--no agenda. It's all "ME! ME! ME! If you like two year old kids--and I DO-- you should love chickens. Chickens don't cheat, they take--but you expect that from a chicken. Chickens don't have ups and downs, mood swings, changes of heart, ulterior motives, divisive thinking (no thinking at all), psychotic breaks, depression, mid life crises, religious awakenings, political viewpoints, or idealism of any kind. They are humble and totally in the moment.
While chickens are not politicians or lawyers, they are very good at being chickens. How many politicians or lawyers do you know who are good people? The pecking order can be cruel but you ain't seen cruel till you've seen our legal system.
My chickens have personalities at least as interesting as some of the current crop of talentless divas (and I'm sure Brittany or Paris will never produce anything as useful as an egg.) They are beautiful to look at and certainly no more vapid than the talk shows infesting daytime TV.
So I like chickens. There's a lot of satisfaction in walking across the yard and having a flock of multicolored wings come tearing along behind me; sitting on the steps and having one of the gurls hop up onto my knees, tuck her head under my arm and chirp; being allowed to stroke a feathered head--or having a chicken jump onto my shoulder and ruffle my hair.
I play evening prayers from the Ramakrishna mission in Calcutta for them at dusk and clicker train them to dance. They take turns coming inside in the evening to sit on my lap (on a towel of course) and eat meal worm treats. They have a fan in their condo and on hot days sit right in front with their feathers blowing in the wind. Come winter they will bask under their heat lamps. They never want for food or clean water. My chickens live better than some of the people on our planet. And that my friends is something we should all feel really sad about.
Tyson was a rescue chicken from a Tyson Foods chicken raising farm. She was the only one of 90,000 peeps delivered 7 weeks earlier that wasn't scooped up and shipped off to be slaughtered and packaged for the frozen food department at Ukrop's. She was with me three weeks till something got into the shed and killed her. For three weeks she sat in the sun, drank clean water, pecked at green grass and slept on fresh straw. For three weeks of her 10-week lifetime she lived a decent life. She was a gentle girl and liked more than anything to sit next to me out back, spread her ratty feathers, stretch out her neck and go to sleep. This is her song.
