Chicken love

We love chickens.  That some folks call them stupid and untrainable indicates to me that either they don't know chickens, or the chickens they know are the inter-bred, all white genetic freaks that end up in the meat section of large grocery stores.  Now, they could be called stupid.  

Jeff Foxworthy has said, "If your first pet was a chicken, you just might be a Redneck".  Well, color my neck red, because, as a farm kid, I not only had pet chickens, I dressed them up, carried them in the milk crate wired to my bicycle handlebars, and decorated elaborate homes for them.  My dog, Peaches, was cranky and uncooperative.  When I tried to put doll clothes on her, she bit me, so I had to use a chicken when we played mom and baby.  My sister and cousins teased me, but I got to change real poopy diapers.  Their dog babies never went in their diapers.

I still have chickens, they are all named, they all have their own personalities and they participate fully in the relationship.  They are free range chickens, meaning they can get into anything they want to unless it is closed or fenced.  They greet us as we go outside, follow me as I work around the yard, demand food and attention, and seek out company to just sit on a lap sometimes.  That's better than the old Chihuahua I have now.  She imitates a decorator pillow in the recliner all day long.  Did I mention that my previous dog Peaches was an old black and tan Chihuahua, like Cali?  Hmm, someday, I'll take a look at that...

My daughter and I are crazy about chickens.  During the summer, they wander into the house upon occasion to say hi and beg for a treat.  They fly up on the bookshelf at late afternoon to roost inside.  They have come in, laid an egg on the carpet and gone back out.  They come when called.  They hang out with me in the garden, slowing the digging by standing on each shovelful of soil to check for treats.  The little rooster, Albert, protects me from who-knows-what.  He comes running if he hears my voice and stays at my side as long as I remain outside.  Then, he wants to come in with me.  Better company than George, sometimes...

The picture of the golden hen, Minerva, at the computer appeared in our local papers.  She also had her picture in the school yearbook, sitting on the overhead projector of a popular teacher.  She won the teenagers' hearts when she pooped on the screen.  A star is born.

I think, as with people, there are all kinds of chickens.  Some you want as friends and family, some you don't.  Some with whom you can have a meaningful relationship, some with whom you can't.  Some you invite into your home, some you wouldn't.  Some who seek out closeness, some who attack unexpectedly.  In my life, I have met more mean people than mean chickens.