The Chris Moeller Archives

Ain't nobody here but us chickens

The missus and I have a unique house-sitting assignment this week. We are about 30 minutes from home out in the country, at the home of my cousins, and in the company and thrall of seven chickens. The starting lineup is a rooster named Oreo and six hens, Tilly, Cici, Salvy, Rex, Olive, and Checkers. And did I mention that they have names? That places them securely in the category of the luckiest one percent of one percent of one percent of chickens living in the United States today. Chickens without names tend to not it as good as these chickens have it, or if their names are something along the lines of Extra Crispy, same thing.

And these chickens do have it pretty good. There's a coop armed with a pair of oscillating fans. An adjoining cage, or run, as they say. The water and grain is replenished at least once a day, ice packs added to the water at other times, and carved watermelon from the freezer fills the void left by afternoon tea and crumpets. We have it pretty good in the house too, with seemingly all-you-can-drink beer and wine.

Allow me to say though that the sexual politics of the chicken coop are a bit unsettling and they required advance warning. Oreo the rooster is-- at least by the standards of the office where I work-- a sexual predator. He acts the pimp, and I admit I had never before fully picked up on the symbolism of the dress style of the stereotypical 1970's-era street pimp, or phrases like cock-of-the-walk. There's no procurement to be had down these mean streets, but he seems to be rather abusive and certainly possessive. Part of it seems appropriate according to human standards. He keeps an eye on them. He tries to step between the girls and any potential danger. At night, when they retire up into the coop, he goes with them, then comes back to the door flap and gives it one more look to make sure everybody is there. (I decided that he can't count to seven, but he can count to one, so if he comes back to the door, and doesn't see any stragglers, all is good.) Most of the hens don't stray too far from him, but then he orchestrates these surprise sexual attacks on them from behind-- I told you this was unpleasant-- they squawk, the couple has physical contact for about three seconds, they both flap their wings for a moment, then remember that they don't have the capacity for flight as their body weight is too great, and then everything is done and forgotten, and both parties return to pecking at the ground. No litigation.

We were told that Tilly, I believe Tilly, was the runt of the litter-- even though runt of the litter is entirely the wrong expression-- and that every chicken in the coop picked at her. That's why I want to say that it's Tilly that's involved in this next story, but I can't be sure. We were left by our hosts with a list of the names that also included their (to me) very-similar physical descriptions. This implied that we were encouraged to learn their names, but aside from Oreo, they all look remarkably alike. Tilly, we'll say, was minding her own business one night early this week. She was free ranging outside the cage, as they all were and are permitted to do during the day. (Incidentally, chickens have a remarkable ability to bring themselves back to the coop at the same time each evening. As reliable as the mighty ocean, they come home to roost, just like Obama's pastor said they would.) Meanwhile, I was positioned comfortably in a folding chair about four feet from the run reading one-time pitching prodigy Rick Ankiel's book about his struggle with the mysterious anxiety condition called "the yips."

On the opposite side of the vast chicken structure, Oreo starts running his game on Tilly. Again, I say it's Tilly because this appeared to be more of an attack to her front then her back. He's pecking at her head, and as I said, we were told that all of the other chickens, even the ladies, had picked on her, at least back during her vulnerable infancy in the spring. (Tilly, it was also explained, is the only chicken that has spent an overnight in the house-- in the bathtub, when she was young and sickly.) She does the wing flap, and glides towards me in the chair after the Oreo assault. She stops about six feet away and gives me a side-eyed look. (They all look at you sideways because their eyes are on the sides of their heads.) And that look, I believe, is one that's saying, "Are you going to do something about this?"

Now I was not told that this sort of thing was something I needed to concern myself with so I'm resolved not to get myself involved in this affair in the slightest. Also, I decided in advance of our stay, though I never expressed it verbally to anyone, that I would not be touching the chickens. If they get out of the cage when I open the door in the morning to fill up the water and the feed, then the free-ranging starts early today and they're out for the rest of the day, until they march back in there themselves, like clockwork, at about nine o'clock this evening, and then I'll close and lock the door behind them. Not to make this too much of an Iowa thing, but I'm just here to keep one eye on them and one on the sky to make sure they're safe from Hawks and Cyclones, as it were. So Tilly and I make eye contact for about five seconds, and then I slowly raise my book from my lap to my face and that breaks our staring contest. I'm here, but I'm not here. You feel me?

Tilly continues her wobbly trot clockwise around the run and the coop. She completes the revolution and I return to my reading. But not ten seconds later, I hear the squawk, look up and again Oreo is on her head and she flaps away in my general direction. This time it plays out differently though-- she jumps at me. She's not attacking me, of course. I'm not in danger. It's more of a "save me" leap into my arms. I fend her off quickly and now Oreo and a couple other hens have her down in a sort of headlock. Oreo is pecking at her head as she squirms and the others are joining in. It's as if they're saying to her, what did you just do? You just jumped on the water and grain guy. It's all nuts. Sure I feel a little guilty that I couldn't do more, but I was not told it was a possibility that the chickens would come at us. The chicken scrum is short-lived, as they all are, and soon all seven are back to pecking at the ground, and I'm dusting myself off. There's no blood. The skin was not penetrated, but there's a forever-chicken scratch, about an inch long, at the top of page 133 of my Rick Ankiel book (in the narrative, that's situationed after the pitching meltdown in 2000, but before Rick the Stick's triumphant return as an outfielder and home run slugger seven years later).

Things haven't really been the same on the farm since. A couple days after, Oreo leaped at my wife while flapping his wings. She doesn't know what caused him to do that, but ever since, she doesn't feel comfortable walking across the yard during free ranging time unless she's gripping the garden sprayer.

Farm time ends tomorrow. Our hosts return and we'll say goodbye to perhaps the best possible "stay-cation" that can be had around these parts. The chickens were a pleasant experience to contend with, I guess, overall, despite the episodes. They're interesting. But they also make one appreciate more the relaxed elegance of the Great American House Cat. There's one of those here too, but no stories to be told. She's just a cuddly, widdle sweetee, aren't you, kitty?

posted by CM @ 12:05 PM