A Chicken Story

Chickens are sort of like licorice. You either like them or you don’t. Licorice is a little too rubbery and tarry for my taste, and keeping chickens is off my bucket list too. Raising chickens reminds me of a Viking saga. Regular brutal, fierce chicken raids, unexpected chaos and endless filth.

We raised our children in Chaires on a seven-acre plot of land. Our land included gardens to feed our large family. We grew vegetables, cut firewood for three fireplaces and bought fruit from local farmers.
Seven kids eat like a pack of wolves and scrambled cheese eggs were a favorite. Instead of buying five dozen a week, we decided to get a few chickens.

Chickens have good press as docile little guys, tirelessly scratching in your garden to rid it of bugs while fertilizing the plants. I pictured our little darlings with cute little baskets, gleefully collecting eggs for breakfast.
Roosters are not docile. Too many of our fuzzy yellow little chicks grew up to be roosters. Not only do they fight with each other, but they attack children. The boys were special targets of Eric the Red and they often fled screaming from injuries inflicted by rooster spurs. After the Hubby culled the herd, there was relative peace in chikendom for a bit.

Chickens do, in fact, eat bugs from your garden, but they also peck holes in your vegetables. Even after we provided them with daily offal from our compost buckets, they continued to enjoy piercing things. The tomatoes were singled out. Our kids started to ask if chicken spit was dangerous to eat.
After feral dogs raided the coop, and after a tearful funeral for several of the hens, we decided to buy some cages. The Hubby put the spacious cages under a tin roof, up six feet off the ground. Automatic waterers and food trays and soft hay were to the liking of our fat and egg producing lovelies. They rewarded us with a dozen eggs a day.

Chickens’ digestive tracts are not like ours. They poop a lot. Mountains of smelly acidic poop accumulated under the cages. If we could have imported snow, we could have opened a ski resort on Mount Chicken Poop. Cleaning it out was not quite how our kids preferred to spend a Saturday morning either, and what the heck do you do with it?

It is too strong to put directly on plants. It burns them up. I decided to dry some out and mail a tub to a college friend in California. It was not until the postal inspector called me that I learned that chicken poop is explosive. It is against some federal bomb- making rule to mail it or even contain it. I guess they had decided that we were not jihadists, just stupid.

After that scare, we dug holes and buried it where next years garden would be placed, but the eggs were looking less and less worthwhile.
The Hubby often pulled the night shift and the crew and I were left on our own at the farm. One night I heard pitiful screeching and screaming from the chicken coops.

I grabbed a shotgun and ran out of the house, stumbling down the dark path to the chicken’s elevated cages. I was met by angry gleaming yellow eyes about six feet tall. I staggered and swayed from the adrenalin rush. I thought I was facing a panther.

I had already inserted shells into the double-barreled shotgun. The night villain hissed and made a quick move to the left. A whole new set of chickens joined the screaming. I yelled “Get out of here!” but the creature stood its ground and lunged towards me. I retreated a bit and fired. I fired again. I reloaded from shells in my back pocket. I had not thought to bring a light.

Roaring guns, screaming chickens and pitch darkness had my heart racing and hoping that our oldest somnolent might wake and come to my aid. The crew slept on oblivious to their mother’s war outside.
I ran, feet don’t fail me now! I ran fast tripping several times and hoping that the thing did not catch up to me. Once in the house, I grabbed a maglite flashlight and slowly eased back to the coops.

There on top of the cages, I found a dead possum. I had also massacred about four chickens who lay mortally wounded in their cages. They were valiant warriors. I know that they are in chicken Valhalla. I freed the remaining unharmed chickens.

The next morning the Hubby cleaned up the crime scene. I was bone tired and had dark circles under my eyes. As I was driving to work, I caught up with my next-door neighbors little VW bug. Clinging to her rear bumper, with feathers waving in the wind, was one of my own emancipated chickens.
That was it, we gave up. Today we buy farm eggs from a Monticello friend who is a real estate broker and a hobby farmer. I'll let her deal with chicken drama and mess. The eggs are still delicious.