Chicken Run
There is almost nothing that can make you feel more uplifted and loved than feathered flock of chickens racing to the coop door to greet you. One could argue that they believe you are bringing them kitchen scrap goodies. But seeing as many of the visits to the hutch are to see what shelled surprise they have left for you, I have a hard time accepting that flighty theory. I do believe they are generally happy…in a content, bird-brained kind of way…to see you. So when I am feeling the least bit blue, an instant remedy is a quick visit to the chicken coop.
It is no wonder we have owned chickens for years. Even while living in the city…which was more of a suburb with the allotted postage stamp yard…we had chickens, along with rather complacent neighbors. They had a small, space efficient coop and would roam amongst our patio furniture and swing set as if all chickens had teeter totters. So moving to the mountains was an egg-layer’s dream.
Our original four chickens…Sunny, Dipper, Thunder and Dixie…made a smooth transition, even though there were plenty of clucks and cackles during the relocating commute. Their new run was delightfully expansive. And while most families would be bent on kitchen remodels or bathroom expansions, we became fixated on the new coop.
I would suffer both humiliation and exile if I were to fry up the actual construction costs. And upon sight, the coop is nothing to write your feathered friends about. But we wanted our sweet chicks to be happy. Plus, in time there would be more feathers in our flock and of course, we wanted to keep the hens guarded against predatory mountain critters. And aren’t these guarantees priceless?
But predators can be relentless, and sadly, we have lost a few through the years to quick witted foxes, bandited raccoons, and sloth like possums. I have often speculated that the hens innate joy for visitors has, on some occasions, caused their demise. But on the few times it has happened, our hearts break like a thin shelled egg. And you feel as if something so loving and trusting as a chicken has been taken from your breast. A few mountain dwellers who have suffered the same scramble have found solace in seeing the loss as part of the circle of life…or even the food chain. As an herbivore myself, I still mourn.
So now, we have in fact created Fort Clucks. Get the yolk? In other words, it is impenetrable and both our chickens and eggs are protected like gold. At night, I sometimes go out with a flashlight and make peace with the nocturnal critters. If their little eyes shine back, I tell them they are welcome to the compost pile, but the chicken wings are not on the menu. So far, we seem to have a treaty.
Back to the joy of chicks…quite amazing is that fact that chickens can be so amicable despite the fact that they are ovulating every day. Anyone who interfaces with women realizes that prior to ovulation comes the PMS phenomena. For hens, I am predicting their quick cycle may only allow for a PMS burst of an hour or so…but every damn day?!? It’s no wonder our rooster had ruffled feathers. Now, if only he’d learn to rub feet, buy flowers, and bring home chocolate eggs. So those sweet chicken sounds we hear from the nesting boxes are more than likely hen-pecked bitch sessions about their feed, their friends, their feathered figures. And after it is all clucked…they leave their golden egg.
If you haven’t tasted a farm fresh egg…you need to. Better yet, you should add to your bucket list the experience of being the first to gather a newly laid egg. To hold its warmth in the cradle of your hand and then touch it to your cheek. There is no reason to consider the anatomy of its passage…just feel the small gift of this mini miracle. And when it is time to poach or scramble or sunny side…the color is that of orange-blazing sunset. Imagine the joy of feeding your loved ones gifts from the ones you love. So they cheer me when I am blue. Bitch alongside me no matter when our cycles turn. And then leave a small, oval treasure in a nest of hay. Now that is the circle of life.