Chicken Love

I have sat in my hammock for many hours, wondering how to begin this post.  Why is it that I like my chickens so much?  What is it about these oddly prehistoric, yet completely familiar birds that is so endearing?  Is it because they act like children on Halloween when I bring out a tub of cottage cheese? Is it because they purr when they are happy?  Is it the fluffy butt factor?

I have loved them since we picked them out of the brooding house at the local feed store.  At that point they were balls of downy puff, peeping incessantly, then curling up on top of each other to sleep.  We put them on our laps as we watched TV, and they purred with the warmth.  When they first moved outside, they pecked around and scratched in the dirt and bathed in the sun.  They passed through a few ungainly molting periods in their chicken teens, then emerged as hens, holding their combed and waddled heads as regally as their cousin the peacock.

What really sold me though, was how they greeted me after work.  I have a demanding job, working with preteens that don't yet know who they are or how to express their hormone-driven feelings.  I am daily dealing with unexplainable outbursts, brainless impulses, and bottomless need.  And simultaneously, I am attempting to teach these pre-people about the Ancient Greeks, fractions, and the three paragraph essay.  So, when I come home, I head out to the backyard and let my girls out of the coop.  They flutter out excitedly, peck around my feet, and ask nothing of me.  They let me be in their busy, curious company, an observer of their natural behaviors, as if I were Jane Goodall with the apes.  Quickly and quietly, the chaotic and egocentric world of my students drop away, and I get lulled by their clucking conversation.  It is a gift, to enter the gentle reality of a chicken, a gift given freely.

In the nitty gritty of chicken raising, there is poop, there are flies, and there were the two roosters.  There are eggs; the first egg laid was an example of real-life, biological magic.  There are the coop cleaning days, and the copious amounts of compost produced.  There are missing swiss chard plants and chunks bitten out of my calla lilies.  There is the unattractive chicken wire and bird netting festooned around my plants to protect them.  There are chicken poop stains on my carpet.
But, I love my chickens for what they offer- a glimpse into their birdish world, into the peace of being without bills, jobs, teenage angst, and politics.  The sun is warm, the dirt is fresh, and cottage cheese is just about the best thing ever.