Poultry in motion
Chicken humor is the low-hanging-fruit of Dad Jokes
Way back when my wife and I had our first house together (circa 2009 I suppose), I declared that we were going to get chickens. I don’t recall how that conversation went, but the marriage is still intact. Chickens became a source of much humor for us. They are easier to care for than goldfish. And how many pets can make you breakfast?
The chickens moved with us to the next house, and predatory critters were their downfall. Another move after that, and we are now in a neighborhood with so many hungry things that our next coop will need to be Fort Knox. This is a chapter of our life without poultry, but I find so much joy in remembering their antics that I am compelled to share a tale of one of them with you today. I also just need a bit of levity.
Where Did Ingrid Go?
The other night I went out to put the chickens away. We let them wander in the yard in the afternoons, and they find their way back into the coop when it gets dark. There's some trust involved in this relationship; trust and bricks jammed in under the gaps in the fence. Since clipping Ellen and Portia's wings, things have been calm when we let the girls out to roam. They peck and scratch, they take dust baths in the dirt, they hide under the huge weeping maple (the clubhouse), they dig in the compost. Life is good. On the particular night in question, I poked my head into the coop and counted. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. It was getting dark. I counted again. Seven. Damn. Where was Ingrid? Her favorite snack is cracked corn (scratch). I shook the plastic tub of scratch and called out to her. She usually comes running. Still no Ingrid.
Was she under the maple tree? I grabbed a flashlight and started hunting for the missing bird.
Maybe she was in the compost. She loves compost. Nope. No sign of her.
Could she have flown up into the lilac tree? Ingrid's wings aren't clipped, but she rarely tries to take flight. A sick feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. Where had she gone? This wasn't normal. Maybe a hawk had gotten her. We began looking for signs of a struggle. Nothing.
I wandered around the sides and front of the house, which are fenced separately. The girls aren't allowed up there. Nope. Not behind the perennials. Or the weed-infested crocosmias.
I even poked my head into the strawberries. No Ingrid. She was nowhere to be found. I walked clear around the block in rubber wellies with flashlight in hand. Neighbors stared suspiciously. I asked if they'd seen a runaway chicken. "Oh," they said. "Nope. No chicken." We gave up the search and called it a night, going into the house to mourn the loss of one of our favorite girls.
I never thought this would happen in the city. Okay, that's inexperience talking, and I feel ridiculous now that I've said it, but it's true. When you live in the city, you forget that there are other animals around, not just the ones you raise in a wire-mesh-enclosed coop. We've had cougars and coyotes spotted in our neighborhood. Cats go missing sometimes. It shouldn't be a shock to think that a hawk, eagle, or owl could snatch one of our beloved hens.
We did not get chickens to be pets. They’re livestock. We raise them for eggs and for bedding that turns into mighty fine compost. I didn’t expect their sense of humor, their unique characters that irritate and charm the hell out of us, their love of Styrofoam peanuts. Sometimes I’ll carry out a handful of uneaten spaghetti for them just to laugh at how they fight over the pasta “worms.”
And Ingrid? Damn, the loss of her felt too close. She filled the role of birthing coach for the other girls when they were laying eggs. She was small and defiant. In a world of boring beige, Ingrid was J-Lo in a Versace gown at the Grammy’s.
The following morning, my wife went out to the backyard and – on a whim – shook the can of cracked corn to see if anyone would come running. From under the maple tree came the bedraggled head of a strung-out Ingrid. Her feathers were in disarray, she looked pale and hungry, and she ran to the coop door to be let in and fed.
Where did she go on her night of adventure and mayhem? Strict interrogations of her and the other girls led nowhere. Those birds know how to keep their beaks shut. In this day and age, however, the internet is an unstoppable tool of revealing truth. The following pictures have been leaked in confidence (please, don't ask me to reveal my sources). In combination with letters of admonishment from local business owners, we have reconstructed some of Ingrid's steps.
22:16 hours. Ingrid is spotted on the dance floor, shaking her groove thing. She apparently terrified the crowd when she let loose to "Play that funky music, white meat."
23:47 hours. The owner of a very nice pub nearby told us, "A young thing, looked like a spring chicken to me, well she came in and set the whole place on its ear with her drinking games and cackling laugh. I had to cut her off at the twelfth pint, and that crazy thing threatened to peck me!"
25:12 hours. A very nervous source also sighted Ingrid at a local tattoo parlor. When asked what tattoo she requested, he explained that she had had an extensive argument with the tattoo artist about the word PLAYER vs LAYER. We have seen no evidence of any tattoos yet.
I have not been able to trace the source of the final photo which was delivered anonymously. The best I could conclude is:
You do not talk about chicken club.
You do NOT TALK about chicken club.
Your trans friend,
Robin