Obituary: The Rest of the Story

I awakened In the middle of the night last night, and for some reason, reached both arms out wide and stretched. My right hand caught a glass of water on the night stand and dumped it on my pillow and mattress. After dealing with the problem, I couldn’t go back to sleep, so at 2:45 I got out of bed and began writing. Around 4:30 I heard, just outside my window--chicken coop location–the sound of something being knocked around. I was writing intensely, paused briefly, and continued writing. From time to time I heard momentary, but unusual sounds from the same area. A little after 5:00, I began to hear what sounded almost like chicken chirps. I knew they were locked up securely, so I kept writing. About 5:30 I got a complete thought down in writing, so, having heard chickens and other sounds, decided I should check to see what was going on. When I opened a curtain and looked out into the lighted backyard, I saw a large raccoon carefully examining, it seemed, every square foot of the yard. Instantly, I knew what he had eaten for his midnight meal on the previous night.

Obituary

Yesterday I buried Celie, the favorite of a daughter and granddaughter–and if I believed in favorites, she might have been mine. I wait until all the chickens have gone to roost before I lock them against predators. Celie was always the last to roost, and she always roosted close to the gate. If she was on the roost when I arrived to shut them in, she would hop down and come over to the gate. A brief time of personal communion. A couple of nights ago, it was well after dark when I went to secure them for the night. I didn’t notice Celie in her usual place, but remembered she sometimes took up a different position. Dark as it was, I assumed all were on the nest, so I locked them in. Next morning when I went to release them, Celie met me at the back door. I didn’t think there was a way she could have gotten out, and examination proved that to be so. She had roosted somewhere outside. And was safe and sound. I felt good. Maybe the varied predators are gone and I can let all of them roost in the trees, wisteria, and honeysuckle vines. By evening I had forgotten Celie’s night out. Again it was late. It was dark. Again I assumed Celie was in, although I didn’t notice her. The next morning, yesterday, she had been disemboweled on one porch, and all the white meat had been consumed on another bloody porch. There was no joy in Mudville when mighty Casey struck out; there was no joy in our home when Celie–Chicken Little–was struck down. She had been the most sprightly, the most curious, friendliest yet most like a wild fowl. The smallest–chicken little. Quirky. At the top of the pecking order, but did not flaunt it like Sally does. For months when we were without a rooster, she crowed like a rooster. She was a Silver-laced Sebright bantam, one of the few true bantam breeds. She arrived here from the Ideal Hatchery when she was two days old. Somewhere I have pictures of her on top of my head. Now she is gone, and life moves on, but I felt like writing this memorial obituary in honor of the joys she brought into our family–and not a few diminutive eggs.

Pullet Eggs

The younger generation recently has begun to lay a few eggs. Brownie, pictured above, laid her first today: bantam eggs are small, pullet eggs are always small, Brownie’s egg was baby-sized, pale tan, and elongated with a pointed, almost ice-cream cone shape. Her papa could be any of two or three roos. From one of these she got her iridescent black/green color. From her white, fluffy Cochin mother, Princess, she got her downright short legs (of course, Lincoln, commenting on leg length, noted that they need only to be long enough to reach the ground). Our gorgeous young rooster, Joe, her stepbrother, reminds me of Ted Baxter–handsome, colorful, good voice, but a little slow in “getting it.” When kitchen scraps are thrown to the chickens, someone else will steal his chosen tidbit before he can pick it up. But it makes no difference to little Brownie whether he has picked it up or not. Her low-down legs are so fast that–several times a day--she will grab food right out of Joe’s beak as she races by. There are plenty of sharp little ladies around who can make a fool out of a big, good-looking male before he has any idea what has happened, leaving him with a Joe, the rooster, blank look on his face. “Hey, what happened?”

Foghorn Leghorn, the Original

Everyone knows Bugs Bunny, Yosemite Sam, and Foghorn Leghorn. They think. Now, meet the real foghorn of a chicken. The Ayam Bekisar is a male hybrid between Green Junglefowl (Gallus varius) roosters and domestic bankivoid game hens. Ayam Bekisars were used as the original Foghorn Leghorn by boat cultures who used the vociferous hybrids to literally stay in vocal distance from one another when separated by the frequent tropical squalls that one experiences in these seas. To this day one finds Bekisars in Java and Komodo contentedly perched in their bamboo cages hoisted above the fishing boats crowing or rather roaring their terribly long songs And now you know the rest of the story.

Questionable Blog

When I was first introduced to the world of blogging, I saw it as a promising place for a writer to public his ideas and interests, so with hardly a thought I jumped right in. Jumped in over my head. If I had given it even a little thought, I would have checked the depth of the water before diving in. I would have found that, more important than the depth, I needed to take note of the swiftness of the stream. I found that the blogosphere has a rapidly flowing current. On the other hand, I am slow. I move, write, think, and live in the slow lane. But blogging looked so full of possibilities that, without thinking, I jumped in and started ten or twelve blogs. I have a lot I want to say. Almost immediately I realized that, with such a load, I could not keep my head above water, could not catch my breath, so I eliminated all but about seven. I probably will be forced to change that in some future. Only thoughtless ignorance could have led me to call one of these blogs, “The Daily Chicken,” or “The Weekly Banty Chicken.” As it has worked out, “The Occasional Chicken,” or “The Whenever Bantam,” would be more accurate. Although I am hesitant to, I may eliminate this blog. But not until I post another handful of pictures or stories when I find time. _______________ Meanwhile, the photo at the top is Sally, an Americauna pullet. I ordered a few Americauna chicks last summer, not because they are a good-looking chicken, but because they and the Aricauna are the only breeds of chickens in the world that lay anything other than white or tan-brown eggs; their eggs are blue, blue-green, or green. One of my small joys is gathering Sally’s light blue-green eggs, and, when we have company, showing them a small pretty they have never seen before, and likely will never seen again. If you keep chickens, you might be want to order a few Americaunas from your favorite hatchery.

Owls, Hawks, and Grass

I said it couldn't happen to me. Rules are made for people, not people for rules. When the Happy Hen House Chicken Forum told me I couldn't, I responded, "I will," and fell just short of telling them that I knew better than they. As I posted recently, I know some rules must be obeyed, both for personal survival and well-being, and for social survival and well-being. I try to obey those sorts of rules. I have found, however, that if you understand the purpose of the rules, and the larger setting in which they are applied, you can serve yourself and society better by ignoring the rules, on the basis of more fundamental principles from which the rules are derived. I was told that my chickens would have to be shut up against predators, have clean, fresh water available always, be fed the proper commercial chicken feeds at least twice daily (available always the more common rule), and I forget what all else. I was told that I could either have chickens or grass, chickens or flowers, chickens or garden. If I kept chickens, they would destroy everything green, leaving everything scratched up and turned brown–looking like a chicken yard. Not me, I said to myself. I know better. Well, my chickens have thrived without commercial feed, and without fresh, clean water (a small pool of moss-covered water has served well. But. . . . Notice the grass in the photo. None remains. Well, less than five square feet. I believed I had such a large yard that there would always be places for them to scratch, and for the grass to grow. I have learned better. Notice the golden-penciled brown chicken; an owl got her one night as she roosted on top of a fence, safely covered–I thought–deep in the honeysuckle vines. When I blog, don’t take it for granted that I know what I am talking about. Sometimes I may not. It would be wise to check me out.

Princess

Princess is a Cochin (also called, especially in England, Pekins), a breed that, along with the Brahma was first imported (though not originally from0) from Shanghai. In the 19th and Early 20th centuries, both breeds were often called "Shanghai" chickens. In my mind, the "tall Shanghai rooster" in "Sweet Betsy from Pike," was a Brahma (originally, Brahmaputra). Brahmas are tall, and they stand tall, while Cochins are short and squat--legs almost not seen. The Brahma struts; the Cochin waddles--at least Princess does. As I have written earlier, I deeply regretted losing my three Brahmas, but they were all loud-crowing --and majestic--roosters and had to go. Princess (who lays brown eggs) is our slow one, but when she gets there, nobody bothers her. She is quietly, not aggressively, the head of the pecking order. Sally (the Americauna layer of green eggs) is the aggressive one, always running others away from the feed, but she leaves the little Princess alone. When I toss out bits of kitchen scraps, the others all make a run to see who can get it first, and if they can't, they often take it away from whichever one got it first. Meanwhile, Princess just ambles up and takes her position, waiting for me to throw something her way. She doesn't get involved in the races and chases. Patiently she waits, knowing that I will send some her way. I didn't like her at first, not her color, not her down-to-earth size and shape, not her feathery feet and legs. We got her a year ago yesterday, and across the months she has grown on me. I've had that experience with several people across the years. I could name several that I did not like at all when we first met. They were not my kind of people. I did not like their attitudes, their voice, even sometimes their looks, and sometimes it was like the old limerick: I do not like thee Dr. Fell The reason why I cannot tell But this I know and know quite well I do not like thee Dr. Fell Some of these became, and remain, among my best friends. Sometimes I am a bit hasty in my estimation of people; sometimes I am plain judgmental. Often I am wrong. With people and with chickens. Roark, withhold judgment until you have good ground for making a valid judgment.