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.

The Chicken or the Blog? Part VI

One fine afternoon, with scorching temperatures yielding a menagerie of crisp-dried earthworms displayed across the pavement for all to view on their walks around the neighborhood, we heard Teri and Fluffy-foot sounding the Emergency Alert System, and saw them throwing themselves against the wire enclosure of the coop and flapping their wings as hard as they could to gain maximum altitude.  The children and I stampeded our way down flights of stairs, wound around the perimeter of the house and nearly slid over the decomposed granite paths until we reached the coop to find our girls suffering near cardiac arrest over the presence of an uninvited guest, a fluffy white dog. 

I promptly picked up  what resembled five bags of Costco-sized cotton balls, scolded it and huffed and puffed back up to street level while trying to untangle the tags imbedded in its fleece.  The heat and the hormones had gotten the better of me and I was in a rage.  I had had enough of various neighbors leaving their dogs to roam off of a leash, and though this particular pooch had made it to the garden, I had suffered worse from another who had busted through my front door and made her way through the entire house while her owner giggled as if it were a behavior to be appreciated.  I mused about taking my children to her house in their muddy shoes and having them rush in to jump on her sofas while I, too, laughed and talked about the weather, and though it gave me great pleasure to think of it, I never managed to bring my dream to fruition.  She moved.

When I finally uncovered the tags, I realized this dog’s name was Tilly^*.  Well, we looked up and down the street to no avail, when suddenly, we heard a voice calling “Tilly, oh Tilly…Tilly, where are you?  Tilly”, and I came face to face with a woman who exclaimed in her thick accent “Oh Tilly!  Tilly!”.  There was no thank you for finding the dog, there was no apology, and so I saw fit to inquire and inform her.  I asked why the dog was running loose and let her know in no uncertain terms that I was ready to call the SPCA.  I notified her of her irresponsibility and expressed my disapproval of owners who facilitate their dog’s breaking and entering into my yard, and of course, traumatizing my chickens!  Throughout all this, the woman only repeated “Tilly… Tilly”, which fueled the embers of my growing malcontent into a roaring blaze.  “Do you speak English?  I do not want to see your dog here again ! Keep it on a leash or you won’t find it next time”!

My presumption is that I must have sounded and looked like an overgrown child throwing a grand mal tantrum.  As I turned on my heel and went back in the front door, I was certain my anger had surpassed even the temperature outside.  The children reluctantly followed.  There was a stillness and a silence like no other and I cooled off immediately, only to find them staring at me dumbfounded.  My  son said cautiously, “Mom, you were really mad.  You were really mad at that lady, and I think she knows”. 

The evening welcomed a cool breeze.  We sat out front, my youngest and I, and she scootered as I tended to my potted plants.  I heard the jingling of dog-tags and the squealing of happy children topped off by my daughter’s exclamation of joy, “There’s my friend!  Mommy!  That’s my friend from school!  We’re in the same class”!  I removed my gardening gloves and stepped toward the curb to find two lovely children, their mother and their dog approaching.  We began a conversation after a round of introductions, though one party needed none.  Attached to a leash and smothered by the surrounding laughter, I could make out quite clearly that she was the one and only, Tilly.

*  The dog's name has been changed in order to preserve her privacy and prevent me from being served papers by an animal defamation expert.

The Chicken or the Blog? Part V

Oh cry me the hydrosphere! 

News of the unexpected annihilation of the majority of our flock were met with anger, distress and an abundance of tears.  We promised replacements, but that “wouldn’t be the same”.  The household was veiled in a dense sorrow, and we all swore we could not possibly eat chicken until Christmas, at least.  The memories were pungent, as was our guilt.

By the end of the week, the children had each picked out a new chick, this time sexed only.  Soon, they had forgotten all about the plight of Rocky, Drumstick, Bicycle and Toula, and had become obsessed with our new clutch, once again residing in our dining room.  The school year was just beginning and there was much to look forward to.

Only, there was one peculiar behavior I was unable to explain.  My son had taken to visiting the garage frequently.  Now, this was not unusual in and of itself.  What was unusual was the fact that he would enter and exit with nothing in his hands.  I was accustomed to seeing the odd baker’s dozen of screwdrivers making their way in and out of his nimble hands, usually as a means to some end I preferred not to ponder, but all of those seemingly aimless tours made me sick with worry.  Finally, I asked him what he had been up to.  “Oh, I’m just checking on Rocky and the boys” he answered nonchalantly, his response both entertaining and irksome.  Otherwise, he seemed to be functioning normally.

In the meantime, I had managed to demolish my hand while trying to simultaneously carry a load of fresh tomatoes, some berries and the watering hose up the terraced vegetable garden.

The chicks grew and joined the hens in the coop.  My pain grew also, and I was unprepared for the road that lay ahead.  My frustration was building.  Between running three children around from one activity to the next, making sure nobody was slacking off, the daily dinners and cleanup, volunteering and tending to the garden and the coop…and all with one hand, I was a ticking time bomb, and somebody was going to get the shrapnel in the face!

The Chicken or the Blog? Part III

COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!
That’s what we heard at the break of dawn one morning.  We had all anticipated such a day, but we were not prepared to face the question of how to distinguish which of our youngsters was announcing daybreak or what to do with him.

As fate would have it, my friend had booked me a massage a few months back with a masseuse who happened to be in the process of opening up a chicken farm.  I could neither pinpoint how we had arrived at the topic of urban chickens nor how the conversation had resulted in my walking out of that room with a telephone number and e-mal address, but I was quick to put them to good use the morning of that first calling.

Since the internet, the phone books and, ultimately, even the masseuse who was suffering considerable delays in the development of the chicken farm failed me, we were left with at least one rooster who took to waking us promptly at 4:30am and activating the snooze option roughly every twenty minutes.  Until experiencing that call in all its glory, we had been under the mistaken impression that roosters took to announcing daybreak and sunset.  Our rooster was no slacker!  He was relentless in his battle to wake us, drag us out of bed and to the coop before deactivating his morning alarm function, and remind us of his presence consistently throughout the day, only to finally cease after darkness fell upon the coop and the sun disappeared beneath the horizon.

We could find no home for our precious pet, save the one farmer who offered to take him and butcher him for himself.  While I worried about the trauma Rocky would suffer on the ride to a strange place far from home, my husband brought out his handmade Japanese knives and the whetting stone and pored over countless articles and videos on how to humanely murder one’s children’s pet.

After roughly one week of laborious research, the executioner sharpened his knives and set the date.  We called a meeting to explain to our children the fate of their rooster (or roosters), and we managed to gain their absolute consent.  All parties agreed that the roosters would meet their fate one way or another, and better it be met by the hand of their father than anyone else’s.  Besides, we promised a delicious Coq au Vin for Christmas. 

August 15, 2010.  Our oldest planned to leave the house and go to a friend’s, our youngest was whisked away by her babysitters and our son pretended to be otherwise occupied (though we knew his burning curiosity would not keep him away for long).  Our hearts grew heavier with every step that lead us on our descent to the garden and closer to our end.

The Chicken or the Blog? Part II

Our hatchlings came home in the customary galvanized steel cage, complete with a feeder, water container and roosting pole.  With not a hint of a coop in the garden and with the weather still brisk, they were nestled under a warm lamp in our dining room.  The following weeks would revolve around feathers, chick dander, kicked up excrement and all else that you would hope never to make it into your dining area.  This was going to be a problem.

Fervently, I pushed for coop construction to begin.  In the weeks before I brought our feathered friends home, I had copiously researched everything from local ordinances to feeding requirements and housing options for our new pets.  A flock of books on fowl and modern homesteading neatly lined the expanse of my kitchen counters and additional intelligence gathered from various online resources piled up near the computer.  The children had been encouraged to read books on chickens from the local and school libraries and their father also delved into heaps of data, although he failed to produce a spreadsheet demonstrating the optimization of feeding schedules, supplies and coop components, ultimately leaving me disappointed.  Of course, that explains why it took two months to complete the coop!

Still, I made it through the first couple of months relatively unscathed.  Considering the hours I spent cleaning every day and the hours I spent awake at night thanks to the chafing chirping of our new friends, the layers of skin peeling off my hands from the constant use of chlorinated wipes and the deep purple semi-circles forming under my eyes, my body and mind remained more or less intact.

The children spent incalculable hours tormenting the chicks, snuggling with them, balancing them on their fingers and wrapping them up in blankets as if they were infants.  Even my husband seemed to dote on them.

Eventually, these chickens would test our resolve.

The Chicken or the Blog? Part I

For years, we had goldfish. I'm not sure goldfish even count as pets, except I remember having quite a collection when I was a child, so they must count for something. At first it was the three plain old goldfish from the school carnival, and soon I began collecting fancy ones with double tails, bulging eyes and various colors. This is more or less how the goldfish collection grew in our home and with my children, only I managed to keep them all confined in one tank and never exceeding five in number.

I've always loved animals. My mother always said I might die of anxiety if left in a room with a mosquito or a fly, but lock me up in a cage with tigers and lions and I would be just fine. She pretty much hit the nail on the head. I've also always possessed this uncanny ability to attract stray animals. So, with my soft spot for just about anything outside the insect realm and my animal magnetism, I found it very difficult to hold steadfast my decision not to have pets (save the won-at-the-carnival goldfish) once I had children.

Fast-forward five years post baby #1. The kindergarten classes at our school hatch chicks or ducklings as part of their life sciences unit. They do this every year. The chicks are kept for a week or two and then shipped off to the farm, where they likely turn into something you pick up at the store for dinner. My husband started working on me right away, asking about the chicks, what happens to them after they hatch, where they might go and whether or not the teachers might be willing to pass them along to a nice home where they might be kept as “pets”. Well, I knew exactly where that conversation was going, so I nipped it in the bud, at least for that year. The same conversation came up two years later when our son was in Kindergarten, but hubby did not persist since there was also a new baby in the house. Eventually, that baby went to Kindergarten where they were still hatching chicks.

Do the math and you'll figure that my husband must be a very patient and persistent man. I'm not sure anyone else would have waited six years for the opportunity, but he sure did, and boy did he work the right angle! All it took was one dinnertime conversation. He timed it just perfectly. His eyes lit up and he wore a contagious smile as he posed the question “Kids, what do you think... wouldn't it be fun to have chickens?” to which the children need not have responded because their expressions had written in them every hope, every wonder and the inkling of distrust that crossed their hearts and minds at the thought that this might be nothing but a cruel trick.

To make a long story short, of course, the children wanted to have chickens. They pledged to help take care of the chickens, they promised to help build the coop, their father swore an oath in some kind of slow-cooked tomato sauce to prepare everything before any fowl laid a feather on the property, and by the power of Democracy and words I was certain would not hold water, I had been defeated. In two weeks, I would be bringing home the six balls of down that would send me on a downward spiral.

The Chicken or the Blog? An Introduction

It is a question that has pestered mankind for centuries, perhaps even millenia. Which came first?

The more contemporary version of the question I ask myself has a much simpler answer. For me, it is clearly the chicken(s) that came before the blog.

How is it that someone who neither Tweets nor Likes nor jumps onto 4square winds up blogging? Well, it has been a long journey, one that has taken me from the purgatory of parenting, volunteering, domesticating (former students of philosophy are generally at liberty to make up words) and such to the progressive Dantean circles of insanity. Every successful sourdough starter, each daily meal, every seed or seedling planted in the garden and lastly, the chicks-turned-roosters or hens that have overtaken my life in sub-urban California, have contributed to my transformation from the content “home-maker” to the marginally insane person in need of blog-therapy.

This is the story of how raising urban chickens slowly drove me to the brink of insanity and why I decided, after much encouragement and prodding from friends and acquaintances, to contribute to the daily recommended allowance of 15 minutes of laughter per day for those who might find this humorous.

I will share my best and worst moments, knowing full well that someone may read this someday and either laugh in recognition or just at the absurdity of it all, while others will shake heads in disapproval or perhaps offer free counseling for my children who will no doubt make good use of it someday.