My Fine Feathered Friend

I've been thinking about chickens lately.  A Lot.  Which is not normal for me.  I usually spend my days thinking about kids, chores, whether or not I'm going to get in a bike ride, or what's for dinner.  Chickens are never on my list.  Livestock, of any kind, for that matter.  And why should they be?  I'm not a farmer, though I think I could be.  I do grow some of my own vegetables every summer, and I love to grow flowers, in particular zinnias.  But that's about it.   

Until recently, the only pets I've ever been interested in owning are the ones usually found dwelling in the burbs: cats and dogs.  Over the years, though, I have  cared for a handful of others:  Spook, the goldfish Anna received while trick-or-treating one year (no lie), a few betas, (very unsuccessfully, I might add) two hamsters, one turtle that my Aunt kindly gave Anna when my cousin could no longer take care of it.  In other words, he grew up, moved out, and didn't want to take it with him.  And then, of course, there were The Brothers.  Dobby and Ruggle were two rat brothers that Anna received AS A GIFT, from one of her girlfriends, on her fourteenth birthday.  The brothers that turned out to be SISTER and BROTHER, who then turned out a batch of babies.  Babies which the sister/mother then devoured.  I never cared for her.

And that's it.  That's as far as my animal rearing goes.  Although, honestly, some day I'd love to have goats.  How cute are they?  And who doesn't love goat cheese?

So why chickens?  Why now?

Well, they seem to be the all the rage right now.  Urban chicken farms are cropping up all over the city.  (no pun intended) Their owners selling their eggs at my local farmer's market every Saturday.   The nursery I spend too much time and money at even sells chicks now.  Chicks that I have to go look at every time I am there.  That Nora begs for every time she goes there. They even offer chicken classes once a month from February through September.   Why T-Town even offers chicken coop Tours in the summer.  And, now, even my neighbors have gotten in on the action.  Yep, right across the street, there are currently seven baby chicks  living under the glow of a red light until they are old enough to move outside,  into their new coop.  The new coop that was built by another of our neighbors.  The coop that was then loaded onto our trailer,  which Dave then towed one long block, to the assembled mass of strapping young men and boys waiting to unload it and place it in the back yard.

My fixation could also be a result of the farming books I've read lately.  And the ones I currently have on hold at the library.  The ones I probably shouldn't read.

So, ya.  It's been all chickens.  All the time.

So last weekend when I was at the library, waiting for Nora to pick up her new batch of farm animal books, (did you know there's a book called "Horses for Dummies") I perused the surrounding shelves, and, of course, my eyes gravitated right to the chickens.  Thus,  over the past week I've read: "Keeping Pet Chickens, " the "4-H Guide to Raising Chickens," and "Keep Chickens, Tending Small Flocks in Cities, Suburbs, and Other Small Spaces."  (Note---my back yard is a VERY small space.)

And I learned a thing or two.  I learned that egg color is determined by the color of the chicken's earlobes.  I learned that the little red thingy on the top of their head is called a comb.  And that it can freeze and fall off in the cold, dead of winter.  Unless you smear it with Vaseline first.  I learned that the more greens they eat, the yellower the yolks will be.  I learned that they clean themselves by bathing in dust.  I learned that they have a vent, aka a hole, which both their droppings and their eggs come out of.  (I hope this wasn't too gross or graphic, but I assumed there would be at least one exit point for each purpose.)  Lastly, I learned that there are way more breeds than the Leghorn.  Although if you are looking for a good layer,  this may be the chicken for you.

Looks like a leader to me-
Apparently, though, Leghorns are skittish and take quite a
while getting used to human contact.      

Take this beautiful Buff Orpington, for example:  

Not only are they beautiful, but, if the literature is true, they are docile and good with kids.  Well I know I could just sit and hold this sweetie all day.  

And how's this for crazy hair:  

Hello there Gorgeous!

Not only is the Buff-Laced Polish bantam a popular layer, but they are tame and easy to pick up (since they can't see you coming).  I don't think I'd want one though.  They are harder to keep clean and that puff of feathers on top is a breeding ground for lice and mites.*  (eww!)

Despite the lice, the mites, and the scaley leg build-up, however, I still believe there are some good arguments for owning my own chickens.

A.  We'd have fresh eggs!

B.  Nora would LOVE it! 

C.  Dave would just LOVE another building project.  (the man lives for them)

D.  Maybe they'd even make a fun pet.

Which brings me to the last chicken book I read; "My Fine Feathered Friend."  

A short, quick, funny, touching tale.
Read it.  You'll be glad you did.  

This book was written by William Grimes, a New York Times restaurant critic, and is the story of how he woke one day to find a black chicken in his tiny, little back yard.  A back yard that was already over-run with stray cats.  The Chicken didn't mind the feline company, however, and, after a while, settled into its new home and eventually became a beloved member of the Grimes family.  Until one day, just as suddenly, it disappeared.  At which point Mr. and Mrs. Grimes were left broken-hearted and, then, confused about how best to deal with their recently purchased fifty-pound bag of chicken feed.  While I, too, was sad to see Chicken disappear, I enjoyed this sweet, funny book for it reminded me how we can find love in the most unexpected places.  

Unfortunately, as much as I'd love to own a few of these little beauties myself,  I know there are evil forces working against me.  

Number one being Mr. Larson.  But he's probably right.  We probably are gone too much in the spring and summer.  Off playing at the Gorge, or hiking and biking the hills of the Methow Valley.  Sometimes we can't even bring our dog with us on these trips and we have to ship him off to Grandpa's for a sleep-over.  And as much as my dad loves me, I don't think he would appreciate  having to tend to a flock of silly chickens. Secondly, as much as I love my dog, (and I LOVE him) scooping poop is not that fun.  Thus, cleaning up after a flock of chickens sounds even less enticing!

So, for now,  I will just enjoy the occasional visits from the Woodpecker, who likes to bang on the wall outside my bathroom when I'm getting ready in the morning, and the Dark Eyed Juncos Nora Jane loves to watch as they devour the food in their feeder.  As I've gotten older, I've learned that there's a time and place for everything.  So, who knows, maybe somewhere down the road, I may be lucky enough to find a chicken (or two) in my own back yard.  

Until then, I have my memory of The Chicken and a few sweet words:

**Ich wollt' ich war' ein Huhn,

Ich hatt' nicht viel zu tun,

Ich legte jeden Tag ein Ei,

Und Sonntags manchmal zwei.

----A German nursery rhyme

I wish I were a hen;

I wouldn't have much to do.

I'd lay an egg most every day,

And Sundays sometimes two.  

Keep on keeping on--

S-

* Information on the above referenced chickens was borrowed from "Keeping Pet Chickens," by Johannes Paul and William Windham

**Nursery Rhyme borrowed from "My Fine Feathered Friend,"  by William Grimes.