My family decided to move to the country. "Jason, it will be good for you to raise chickens," my father said. I thought I was doing fine with the dog, but I was excited. Finally, I was going to be a good old country boy. (My country cousins always called me city boy.) Mom and Dad became Ma and Pa, just like the old western movies while my bicycle hopped around like a wild bronco. I talked Ma into buying me a cowboy hat. Sure, the neighborhood boys laughed, but the girls flocked around as if I was a rodeo star. "Easy on the hat," I said. "It's to fan that bull's back while I ride." As I lay in bed, I tossed and turned fantasizing about my famous flock of chickens.
At last the day arrived to move to the country. I was so excited I thought my hair was going to fall out! I paced up and down the sidewalk as they carted box after box to the large truck. By the time we arrived at our new house I was ready to lay an egg.
I was ready for the country life. However, unpacking took longer than anyone expected. I was ready to buy my chickens, but old Pa was not. I stared at sparrows pretending they were my best egg layers. I whispered, "Good girls! You laid a whopper egg!"Finally, two weeks later Dad and I strolled into the local feed store. I did not realize we would be buying baby chicks. Boy, those birds sure were tiny! We bought an assortment of twenty-four for $1.25 each, including Barred Rocks, Rhode Island Reds and Aracaunas.
Upon arriving home, I discovered it took work to raise chickens. For some reason I saw myself reaching into the nest to gather eggs, selling them and that's all. Feeding and giving fresh water to the chicks took place twice a day. Then there were the chicken droppings. Whoa boy! I thought my nose would fall off! I set my jaw and went to work. Dad said, "Anything worthwhile requires work." I replaced their dirty newspaper twice a day.
After four weeks on the garage floor, the chicks began to look more like chickens every day. The time had come to move them outside. Their newly built chicken coop was ready! I was bouncing around like a hard rubber ball! Dad kept asking if I thought they were ready for the move. I said, "My chickens have a mission of the highest order! Their eggs will rule breakfast tables around the world!" I assured him they would be just fine.
Boy were they fine! They trotted around their new pen as if they were at a jogger's convention. Flapping their wings, they would charge ahead for no apparent reason. I was so proud of my chickens. They looked athletic enough to pole vault over the pond.
I called up several of my city friends. When they arrived they stared like kids who had lost their pop-sicles. They were jealous and wanted my chickens. I was on top of the world! I strutted around the chicken coop pointing out all its various features. There were roosts for the birds to sleep on. Then there was the elevated walkway that ran along side the individual straw-filled nests. My friends placed orders for a dozen eggs and left like a sad bunch of flea-bitten dogs. I said, "Y'all talk to your Pa about moving out here."
Caring for my chickens was much easier with them outside in their pen. They could use the bathroom on the dirt and it turned to soil. I liked that; no more messy newspapers to clean up! They drank water from an automatic watering bowl while I fed them a mixture of corn, milo, and wheat. Now, it was just a matter of waiting. My hens would not start laying until they were about six months old.
In the meantime I continued to give tours of my chicken ranch to my friends from the city. It was pretty comical when they started wearing cowboy hats. I was tempted to call them city boys and city girls, but did not.
I started letting my birds out during the day. They enjoyed running around eating grass, grasshoppers and anything that moved. If those insects could scream, I'm sure they would have rattled a few windows. What could be more frightening than a stampede of chickens chasing you across the yard to gobble you up?
After eating lunch one day I ran outside to check on my flock, only to discover the tragedy of all tragedies. One of my hens was missing. After several minutes of searching I saw something that made my heart sink to my knees. I found a pile of feathers representing what was left of the hen. Off in the distance and on the horizon, I saw a large brown coyote trotting away. A cold chill ran down my spine. I wanted that coyote more than a giant Icee in July. I wanted him over for dinner, sauced and grilled on a silver platter.
I learned what most chicken farmers sooner or later learn; coyotes love chickens. They like to eat them for breakfast, lunch and dinner, if they can. As I lay in bed later that night I whispered quietly, "Coyote, say your prayers."
The coyote had sharp teeth--I had my dad. Pa was waiting for the wily coyote the next morning. Hidden among the leaves in a tree next to my chickens, he was ready for the hairy intruder. Quick as a cougar, Pa sprang off his branch screaming like a wild hyena and landed on the coyote's back. I ran out of the house shouting, "Feast upon my chickens no more you mangy dog!" Pa wrestled the coyote as I ran circles around them and yelled, "Get him Pa! Get him Pa!" Leaving a cloud of dust, the whimpering coyote scampered off with his tail between his legs.
However, the wrestling match between my father and the coyote was only a dream. Dad said the coyote was just trying to survive. It was my responsibility to keep the chickens safe behind a fence. If chickens are on the farm, it isn't long before coyotes smell them and hear their assorted sounds. Mr. Rooster wakes everyone up with a cock-a-doodle-dooooo! Mrs. Hen hollers bawk! bawk! bawk! after she lays an egg. If you laid an egg, I am sure you would holler proudly too.
In the meantime I trained our barnyard dog, Fred, to leave the chickens alone. He was behaving himself until Big Red, one of my roosters, became a teenager. Big Red wanted to be king of the barnyard. Big Red learned to crow, to pick fights and act like the toughest thing alive. Roosters have dangerous spurs on their legs and are known for being barnyard bullies. They try hard to protect and impress the hens. Big Red began to bully Fred, who was being as polite as a Sunday School teacher.
Big Red jumped on Fred like a mad kick-boxer. Fred tried to run and hide, but Big Red found him instead. After a week of spurs slashing at his back, Fred had had enough. One day I found Fred in his doghouse with what was left of Big Red; A foot and some feathers--Big Red was dead.
I gave Fred a half-hearted lecture on not eating my chickens. But, how could I blame Fred for eating Big Red? Big Red must have tasted delicious because Fred made an innocent hen his afternoon's snack two days later. A spanking and another dead hen later, I sent Fred packing. He taught a bully, tasted heaven, and had the taxi to pay. Juicy chickens were off his menu; I gave Fred away.
To replace Fred, Dad bought a Chihuahua for my birthday. She was silver blue with tan markings on her chest and legs. I named her Marcy.
Meanwhile, my egg orders were on the rise! But, I had none to sell. Every afternoon found me peering into a hen's nest as if I lost my favorite marble. Finally, when I least expected it, my eyes fell upon a gift from heaven, my very first egg. I ran around the pen as if I won the lottery! I yelled, "Get your ham hot, fresh eggs can be bought!" My chest swelled with pride and tears filled my eyes.
That evening, as I was eating my boiled egg dinner, I asked dad If I could have a pig. He hesitated. I reminded him how much I was learning. He looked at me thoughtfully and said, "It's a deal. Ham and eggs make a fine and dandy meal!" My mind jumped into gear. How was I going to keep my pig off the breakfast menu?
|
