MONSTER

Unable to reach Monster's keepers and with another menacing black pitbull threatening behind the closed doors of the shaded house, I resorted to contacting the SPCA.  After explaining the situation, they agreed to send someone over immediately.

Lauren was a dogcatcher like no other.  Towering over me at 5'11" and the proud owner of perfect model measurements, blonde curls gathered seemingly effortlessly atop her head cascading as if Botticelli himself had placed them there as his artistic hand had those of his Venus, her melodic voice and pleasant demeanor left us all in complete awe with jaws to the floor.  She proceeded in calmly convincing Monster to follow her to the truck.  With the patience of a saint she allowed him to become familiar with her and the vehicle before even attempting to get him inside.  Monster was unhappy in spite of Lauren's genteel efforts, but he eventually complied.  What male of any species would not have followed her?

Once the K9 was securely stowed away, Lauren kindly made her way back to the garden in order to assist in the retrieval of our remaining two missing chickens.  Together we coaxed and cajoled Fluffy Foot and Clio from under the fence and the neighbor's overgrown juniper bushes.  Lauren eventually took to crawling under the fence, into the web of juniper branches and pushing the chickens my way.  She emerged with her coif embellished by various leaves and berries, looking intentionally tousled.

After nearly two hours, the coop was locked with all the residents safely inside.

Part XII - Operation Clio

The news of kind neighbors giving Clio asylum sent me rushing down the street.  I knocked on the informant's door, and she politely showed me which house below might be serving as the foster farm.

Too impatient to walk my way down the hill and around, the children and I ran for the car, swerved out with intention and parked ourselves in front of the said house.

A polite older man answered the door in his bath towel and slippers, only making the fact that I was there to inquire about a missing chicken that extra bit more awkward.  Before I could apologize and explain myself, the children ran off about the bird and he immediately called his wife to the door.

The woman explained how Clio had appeared in their yard the previous evening chased by a fluffy dog, and that the home's Dachshund had been confined to the garage in order to preserve the well-being of our chicken, which had spent the day in the garden foraging for earthworms and chewing on the vegetation, perfectly content.

After thanking her profusely for her kindness, we were off to restore the last of our flock to her rightful place.

A dinner party was still in the making, but with our chickens safely home and the sun mellowing behind the eucalyptus, there was serenity in the household.  As I gathered up some eggs to drop off for our helpful neighbors, I wondered how I had ever gotten myself into such a predicament.

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.

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 IV

I followed reluctantly, finding solace in the fact that it would not be by my hand that Rocky would find the peace for which he had never searched.  I watched our half dozen chicks, astonished by their beauty, their once black plumes now iridescent blues and greens with an unexpected putty and dove-white hidden beneath their wings.  Never had I imagined I would find chickens remotely attractive, but I suppose the little rascals had grown on me!

In the meantime, my husband dug the ceremonial ditch and muttered something about how their blood would surely make for a good harvest.  For a moment I wondered whether he might give up Sundays in church for something terrestrially pagan, but I realized he was only excited by the thought that he would be slaughtering a rooster and simultaneously making his own blood meal, sort of like killing two birds with one stone.

The time came for Rocky’s last hoorah.  I handed him over to my husband who took him in his arms with a tenderness I did not expect.  With a hint of hesitation, he carried him to the ceremonial hole.  I could discern my husband’s voice, faint from such a distance, and within a few minutes he met me on the steps just beside the coop.  The machismo had been drained from him.  Taking a life, as it turned out, was no fun at all.

Within fractions of a second, we heard another cry.  As we had suspected, it seemed Drumstick was a rooster as well.  He challenged big daddy by spreading his wings and calling loudly.  My husband asked if I would like to join him for this one, but I politely declined.

Drumstick went as quickly and quietly as Rocky, which provided some consolation, as we believed that at least they had not suffered.  There was relief in knowing the deed had been done and that we could now go on with our day.  My husband walked over to the garden sink to clean the knives, his gaze removed as the water ran over the blade and swept the blood away in streaks. 

Cruel they were, the inhabitants of our coop.  Another dark knight flapped and yapped and challenged the executioner.  The sheer shock sucked the air right out of us.  Deflated, we got a hold of yet another cockerel and up to the dripping hole he went.  It was bye-bye-Bicycle (really, that was his name).  This time I watched.  Interestingly, he never called out or fought back.  A mere flap of the wings, strangely honorable, was all I saw.

Well, now we’d done it!  It was finally over, and all that was left was the rest of it.  The propane burner came out, the folding table was draped in plastic bags and newspapers, and we were blanching our boys and plucking their feathers without fully registering the events that had preceded.  My husband and I mused about the Coq au Vin we would be eating for Christmas, but grappled over how to confess to the children that we had lost one extra chicken, though we could offer to get them another to ease the pain.  We were feeling confident that we would figure it all out.

Only, the joke was on us, because out of nowhere there came yet another cockle.  I looked at my husband, he looked at me, and at once I stated with complete certainty that someone in our neighborhood was hiding a rooster.  The sound had come from over the hill, and I was absolutely positive that some other sorry soul had brought home Kindergarten hatchlings.  Those poor people would now have to find a home for their rooster or process him themselves, I thought.

My husband continued to stare in disbelief.  He looked at me firmly and asked whether I was joking.  Of course nobody else had a rooster, and of course there was another in our very coop, he said.  I was wondering whether he was the crazy one, so I set of to disprove his hypothesis, immediately.  I ran down to the coop as fast as I could.  I heard nothing, save my heart pounding and the words running through my head “it’s not our rooster”!  I approached and confronted Fluffy-Foot, Teri(yaki) and Toula.  They looked at me as if I had escaped from the sanatorium and Toula, the nerve she had, she dared to flap her wings at me and cry "cock-a-doodle-doo"!

Et tu Tula?

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.