Chickening Out

 

Carolyn J. Rose

When he was growing up in the Catskill Mountains during the Depression, one of my father’s chores was cleaning the chicken coop. Another was getting the chicken ready to be the main dish at Sunday dinner. He wasn’t a fan of either job.

 When he joined what is now the Air Force on the day after Pearl Harbor, he made a vow:  when the war was over, he was done with chickens. Then he went a step further—he swore he’d never eat chicken again.

 

I never saw him break his vows. Even though my mother sometimes returned from the store and, in a voice implying scandal or a travesty of consumer justice, complained about the price of eggs, the conversation never turned to raising chickens to cut costs.

 

Consequently, my experience with these birds was limited to spotting them pecking in farmyards or seeing them packaged and ready to cook. My lack of a comprehensive resume, however, didn’t discourage my neighbors. They entrusted me with the care and feeding of their four hens while they went on vacation.

 

Three of the hens tolerate my excursions into the run and my egg-gathering activities. They cluck and mill about my legs and lead me to the bin where the mealworms are stored. Fortunately for them, and for me, the mealworms are not alive and wiggling, so I often scoop some out as a treat. I also—after searching the Internet to determine what chickens can and can’t eat—bring them kitchen scraps. Kale, spinach, peas, and blueberries are big hits.

 At least they’re big hits with the brown hens. The fourth one, a large white bird with a crooked beak, views me with the kind of disdain I reserve for Hawaiian pizza, fennel, and litterbugs. 

She would rather peck at me than at the provisions I offer. She’s the reason I wear heavy rubber gardening clogs and gloves into the coop.

 I tell myself a 75% approval rating is pretty darn good—at least it is in the political arena. I tell myself it’s okay if not everyone likes me. But I sometimes wonder what I did to offend her.

 No, I don’t lie awake at night reviewing our interactions to determine what I said and did, but incidents have come to mind. There was the time I mentioned she evolved from dinosaurs. And the time I inquired if she’d like to be fried or baked. And the time I wondered how she’d like a one-way ticket to almost anywhere. And the time I wondered how far a drop-kicked chicken would travel.

 Okay, so we have baggage. And I’m not blameless.

 But, what to do?

 I can’t imagine lugging her to a therapist to resolve our issues. And I won’t call in a chicken whisperer. Our relationship, such as it is, will end when my neighbors return. In the meantime, however, a needy little part of me wonders if there’s some way to win her over.

 If you have an idea that doesn’t involve installing air conditioning in the coop, providing designer water, or worms that are still wiggling, let me know.