“Mom,” my son, Jim, calls out from
the door, “your chickens are in my truck.”
“You brought the chickens?”
“Yeah, they’re in the truck.”
“You mean they’re in a box in the
truck?”
“No, Mom, no box, they’re just in
the truck.”
“Well, so what’s stopping them from
jumping off the truck?”
“Mom, they’re in the cab.”
In front of the porch sits Jim’s
truck. All four chickens sit on the
front seat, cooing and clucking, all the vocabulary they have to discuss moving
vehicles and this alien world.
Wide-eyed, they stare at me through the window seeming confused and
disoriented. They hardly seem like the
same birds I gave my son six months ago.
Three weeks before our first trip
to Europe, I stopped in the feed store and fell in love. Penned in the middle of their floor was a
congregation of about twenty baby chicks, three weeks old and about the size of
quail. I had wanted chickens since we
moved to the country a year ago. The
idea of going to the barn to gather eggs, or of chickens scratching in the
weeds picking at bugs and seeds, left me feeling like Rebecca of Sunnybrook
Farm. But thus far I had hesitated to
have baby chicks since our cats might not understand the bigger picture of them
growing up and becoming a living part of our mini farm.
If I get them now, I reasoned, they
will be six weeks old by the time we leave for Europe. My daughter and granddaughter can guard them
from the cats while we are away. By the time
we return from our trip, they should be nearly grown. With all pieces of the fantasy in place, I
bought two Rhode Island Reds, and two black and white speckled chicks.
Since I hadn’t planned to buy
chickens, the barn wasn’t ready for them.
Besides, it was the beginning of April and still cold at night. As a temporary place to house them, I set up
the bathtub in the guest bathroom with shredded paper, their feed, water, and a
box laid on its side for a place for them to sleep. I then dangled the heat lamp from the shower
to make sure they stayed toasty, an ideal home until they got bigger and looked
less like feline dinner.
All went well for about a
week. The chicks grew at an amazing
rate. After awhile, they seemed not to
mind when I would reach in and pick them up to gently stroke their shiny
feathers. Like little acrobats, they
would perch on my arm, fluttering to find their balance before hopping back
into the tub.
After the first week, however,
there was trouble. Montana, one of the
Rhode Island Reds, was loosing her back feathers. Her sister, pecked at her as if she had a
neurotic tick, like a chicken in serious need of therapy. The balder Montana got, the more her back
looked like a target for her psychotic sibling.
Sharon at the feed store said she
never heard of this happening, but suggested that I put something on the
chicken’s back to protect her. She
wondered if maybe Vaseline would work. I
had to do something, and this idea seemed as reasonable a solution as any.
Covered with the greasy goo, I
returned Montana to her chicken family.
Instead of forming a protection from her sister, however, the Vaseline
alerted all three of the chicks that something was seriously wrong. Disturbed, they launched an attack, their
only solution for this odd, grease-covered fowl.
Without hesitation, I reached in
and rescued her from her assailants. She
let me put soap on her and even seemed calm when I put her under the bathroom
sink faucet, warm water running off her back.
When she dried, however, she was nearly as greasy. Two more baths later, she still had a film of
fat on her. In just a week and a half,
we were flying to Barcelona. I still
needed to pack, plan, organize, but Montana’s wet body nestled into the towel
on my lap anchored me to the role of caretaker for this hapless chick. How crazy was I to think I could raise baby
chickens?
More to commiserate than to ask for
suggestions, I finally called my son, Jim.
“Maybe they’ll take them back at the feed store. I have to get ready for our trip.”
“Mom, I’ll be right over.” When he arrived, I told him, if he wanted
them, they were his. Relieved, I watched him gather the chicks and joyfully
packed them into their box and drive away.
That was six months ago. Jim
separated the chickens until Montana’s feathers grew back, built them a deluxe
chicken coop and tried to raise chickens in the middle of Carmichael where he
was living with his grandmother. It used
to be a rural area, and Mom’s neighbor had a couple of goats and chickens. But that was then. Now, clearly defined as a residential
neighborhood, chickens are illegal.
So here they are. Full-grown egg laying chickens like I had
wanted from the beginning. I still am
not sure how all of this is going to work out.
I’m not exactly a country girl, but at least I have chickens.
Montana, the last of the original four baby chicks, died
July 11, 2012. She was seven-years old.
Next week, the blog will return to its series about blended
families.