The Chicken or the Blog? Part X

Take me away [insert name of favorite bubble bath or bath salts here]!

 

Yes, it was one of those moments, although the Napoleon XIV song of the 1960s more closely conjures my mood.  When I pulled myself together, I made it up to my kitchen to prepare dinner for the kids and continue with perpetual cleaning and tidying.  I clearly recall scrubbing pots and pans and taking a moment to look out the window over the sink in hopes that taking in the natural border of cypress trees, the redwoods clumped on the neighboring hills, the giant eucalyptus that brought welcome shade to our garden and the flittering blue jays might calm my nerves. 

Only, as my eyes soaked up the landscape, something odd caught my attention in the meticulously pruned citrus grove of the property below.  It was as though viewing a diorama of a cow grazing in a pasture among the oak trees, only the oaks had been replaced by an orchard of dwarf fruit trees and the cow by something white and feathered, yet grazing.

“Teri!  Teri” I screamed and rushed downstairs.  In no time, I was at the bottom of the property climbing the fence and calling to my neighbor below (I learned then that his command of English is… poor).  “My chicken!  You have my chicken”!  He nodded but looked at me baffled.  I think he was trying to ask if chickens respond to hearing their names, much like dogs, because he doubted whether he could catch her.  At least, I think that was the cause of his concern, so I explained that he need only stay behind the chicken and cajole while I did the calling.  I only needed his help in getting her over the fence.  How she ever got past two wooden fences I could not figure.

The scene was between ridiculous and hilarious.  Once Teri got close to the fence line, I saw the old man open a little door on his side.  She slid into the space between the fences and flapped her way up to my fence.  The secret doorway remains a mystery.

To have retrieved one of our flock seemed a significant victory.  But what of Clio*?  Could I leave my girl aimlessly roaming the streets at night with predators lurking?  

 

*Clio is the chicken.  She is not my teenage daughter.

Visitors in the Garden

This weekend I read an article about a squirrel that got fat on bird feed.  I couldn’t help but laugh, as I know first hand what it’s like to have the unwelcome gluttonous guest in my garden. 

Cute as they may be, the squirrels in our part of town will stop at nothing.  They dig out bulbs, tear down unripe fruit (sometimes they manage to pick off an entire persimmon or fig tree in a matter of a couple of hours) and eat their way through plastic bins we use for storing chicken feed.  Once, they even tore into my son’s backpack, pulled out his lunchbox, tore open the zipper and made their way through the food pyramid!

Fortunately, my husband is the founder of the Squirrel Relocation Program.  He traps them, holds them in their cell overnight and transports them to a new location very far away the following morning.  I only worry they might confuse the trunk for the…  facilities.

The Chicken or the Blog? Part IX

Unbeknownst to me, the perceived placidity of the first winter months was merely a delay in the formation of the adjoining link in this chain reaction that had been set off from the moment we had made up our minds to open our hearts and home to these fowl friends.  I had allowed myself to be lulled by the thought of eight quiet weeks before the next string of guests would make their way into our home, only to have been brutally awakened one February afternoon by signs of another missing chicken.

Once again, I found nothing but a trail of feathers.  The predator had attacked in broad daylight, leading me to believe it must have been a hearty neighborhood cat playing chase with our chickens.  Upset as we all were, we chalked it up to the fate of any prey in a predatory territory.  Only a couple of weeks later, the chain of events seemed to be building itself into a full set of shackles.  Instead of a peaceful evening of cooking and getting ready for the symphony, I was greeted with a “two down” at the door.

There was no urgency in my steps as my feet dragged down the customary path in disbelief, defeated.  Again the same signs, again no chickens and again I seemed delusional for discerning the muddled calls of Teri and Clio in the distance.

“No more.  No more chickens”, I let my husband know in no uncertain terms.  I could not possibly put up with tending to living things only to see them disappear without notice and in spite of so much effort in arranging for their safety.  This time, it was really over.  My oldest had gone down to check for eggs and close shop, but somehow got sidetracked and not only forgot to lock down, but had propped up the back door of the coop so as to have it appear an open invitation to all passersby.  That degree of carelessness was beyond anything I could handle in that particular moment.  My husband’s repeated reminders that these were “just birds” left me exasperated.

In what may not be my proudest parenting moment, I grabbed an old IKEA frame that happened to be standing next to the washer, removed the paper liner and wrote in colored whiteboard markers “CONGRATS!  TODAY YOU KILLED TERI AND CLIO”, fitted it back into the frame and propped it up on the easel, which I placed strategically in the center of the hallway.  This would ensure that the children would be greeted by this sign as they walked in from their evening activities.

Interestingly enough, I seem to have hidden this signage behind the easel for nearly a year now, which allows for a staging of the above described and the picture below.