The Truth About Chickens
“I thought of them more as an alarm clock than as a food source.” —John Davis, housemate
On a drizzly post-Easter-party Monday, I was awakened by the unmistakable sounds of chickens. I jumped out of bed and peered out each window but, seeing no chickens, I went back to bed. The phone rang.
It was work, inviting me to a meeting just down the street. Pulling myself together I forgot all about chickens… until I witnessed the two strolling wing to wing, crossing the road.
If you had asked me before that day if I liked chickens I would have said, “the gizzards, liver and heart.” So… I walked past the chickens, headed down Main Street, and remained relatively emotionless during my succession of terrible visions. My only thought was, “Those chickens, they haven’t got a chance.”
Emotionless, that is, until I saw a group of teenagers huddled around a gutter of soggy feathered chicken parts, making jokes. I couldn’t stand it. Chickens must be close to the most ridiculed subject on the planet, I know, but in a baffling act of compassion I forfeited business to save the chickens’ necks.
Now, I know not to trust Hollywood stereotypes, but when I saw that cop chasing that chicken on that video in that commercial I knew some blatant injustices were being perpetrated. And I took the clue: in herding chickens, do not try to direct them; their eyes are on the sides of their heads. The only thing to do, calmly, with arms outstretched, is to give them the idea of where not to go.
I rounded the chickens into a neighbors fenced yard. The neighbor was out of town and I was watering his plants and taking in the mail, so I figured he owed me. For three days or so, the chickens roosted in his yard, on his back porch, in his tool shed, chickening everywhere. And an egg.
And eggs! One was most definitely a girl. She sported a coiffure that rivaled West Valley’s best. I named her Original, but I didn’t know what to make of the more macho, glinty-eyed one. I knew that chicken, named Extra-Crispy, would be trouble.
We made a little chicken coop in our backyard: chicken wire, tarp, 2 x 4’s, and some old rabbit cages as roosts. During that sloshy spring, rain and snow steadily collected in pockets on the blue tarp roof and the chickens blue “sky” would slowly fall. During the nice late spring days, I would take the chickens out and tether them to the fruit trees in the backyard. Eventually, mid summer, we had a fully enclosed yard and the chickens enjoyed freedom daily, for hours at a time. Freedom in the tomatoes, freedom in the beans… They must’ve been the happiest chickens ever.
As the months went on we became quite close. Original loved being scratched behind the ears and Extra-Crispy, under the wings. Both enjoyed being held and got along well with children, less so with dogs and cats. I would open the back door and two chickens would run across the backyard yawn to greet me. There is nothing funnier than seeing a chicken run toward you. Those chickens, they even got into the habit of coming inside whenever the door was open, but this was a problem. And once, while working in the front yard, I learned that they could escape from the backyard if they really wanted.
I worried constantly over the revealing moment of Extra-Crispy’s roosterhood. I would awake every night sweating. I would call home from work asking for a gender-status update. I sensed a chicken on the verge. But by summer I was very puzzled. About every other day we would find two eggs laid, instead of just one. I eventually figured out that both my chickens were laying the best-tasting eggs my friends and I had ever eaten. Extra eggs! And Extra-Crispy would not be crowing!
Those were very good times, but they weren’t perfect. The chickens were tearing up the yard, the garden and especially the lawn. And worse, although they weren’t roosters, both loved to start squawking at first light.
I tried everything. I thought they were hungry, so I brought them food (bad training move). Then I thought they were bothered by the light, so I covered them up at night. I thought they just wanted me to come out and say-not-nice-things loudly to them… Nothing worked. I even tried bringing them indoors. They just had it in their nature to squawk. I would have to except it, and so would the neighbors.
I often wondered about the chickens’ past: Where did they come from? Where did they think they were going? And why? Someone, somewhere, was either missing them terribly, or in a lot of trouble. They were no ordinary birds. They even survived the tornado, which had passed directly over our block.
Chickens like that are special. So when September rolled around and it was time to go to the big party out in the Nevada desert, I decided I trusted Original and Extra-Crispy enough to grant them a full five-day furlough – the run of the yard. And they must’ve had a great time. When we returned home in the middle of the night the first thing I did was check on the chickens. There they were, up in their roost, probably wondering who the heck was shining that light in their faces. (They put up with so much).
But a lot happened between 2:30 and 8:00 AM on September 7th. That day our next-door neighbor put live-traps around his front yard to capture and relocate the raccoons living in our neighborhood since the August 11 tornado. I held informal Buddhists services at the grave of Original and Extra-Crispy’s tattered remains.
My life has been different because of the chickens. It was different with them, and now it’s different without them. There are some things I would like to share: Chickens are wonderful. They’re smart, friendly; you just have to get to know their individual personalities. Chickens are loyal. They are easy to care for. And chickens have got to be the most giving creatures on this planet! (They even left me with a good five-egg omelette.) That’s the good news. The bad news is, unfortunately: Everything wants to eat a chicken.
Catalyst Magazine
Catalyst Magazine
March 2000
Memoirs