Poultry Whisperer

I got chickens today.  Lots.  of.  chickens.  

My niece is also a chicken woman.  She has bunches, many kinds, even shows, sells and trades them.  Well, she is moving to somewhere as yet undetermined, and until she gets settled, her chickens have to go somewhere. Where else but Aunt Lynnie's!  It is where extra kids, animals, birds, and plants go to recover, hide out, or learn to behave.

My daughter came from her college town forty miles away and we drove an additional seventy five miles away to fetch chickens and pens.  In my four wheel drive GMC and utility trailer.  Out west cruisin' in style.  

The hillside behind my niece's house was covered with pens full of chickens;  giant, award winning Cochins, little-bitty miniature Old English game, dramatically feathered Pheonix.  None of whom wanted to be captured, placed in little carriers, and driven to a new home.  Without saying so, they did get their point across.  Luckily, I am the Poultry Whisperer!

It is not something I just run up and announce or anything.  It's a stealth identity.  But, anyone who has seen me around chickens knows it.  I can herd, wrangle, or catch just about any bird.  This unique but totally unmarketable skill comes from growing up with lots and lots of chickens.  Laying hens, fighting roosters, pet chickens, you name it, we had them.

Today, I was on.  I had those birds under my spell.  I was quickly and gently catching birds, sometime two at a time, with almost no screeching or flapping of wings.  I 'talk' to the birds in a sing-song/clucking way that I learned from my father.  It is like going back to my native tongue, natural and soothing.  I never lunge, I never rush.  

I go in low, arms slightly out to my sides, and use just my wiggling fingers to direct the birds. They turn away from the side I am wiggling and go where I want them to. Eventually, they stop or just hunker down and wait.  I pick them up from under the breast and capture their wings.  

I watched my daughter catching chickens.  She is tall and slender, with athletic limbs and the grace of a dancer.  She, too, is fluent in the language of chickens.  She gently approached them, crooning a song generations old, and picked them up effortlessly.  She turned each one over, spread each wing, inspected the vent, and checked eyes, comb, and feet.  A wellness check, as natural to her as combing her own hair.  I knew I was watching family history manifesting itself.