Buck

Again - you all heard me say 'dogs', right? Well, I rescind that. I'm just not a dog person, unless it's a really old, fat dog that just wants to lay on my lap. You know what else I am not? A chicken person.

No more orphaned creatures for a while, please.

A few weeks ago, one of the 5th graders chased a mother hen on his bike, separated her from her chicks, grabbed one of the babies, and then brought it to school to show off and throw around the playground. The little freshly hatched chick was confiscated by a teacher, who brought it into the library and told my mother to babysit it, because she's been identified as the designated bird rescuer. And then they never came back for it, because PROBLEM SOLVED. So she came home with a chicken. Again. The last time this happened, Rocky turned out to be a rooster, and he returned to the school campus to run rampant and terrorize the feral cats. But Buck here appears to be a hen. And a fancy hen at that; she has lush feathers growing off her ankles like bell bottom jeans. My mother is running off to Indiana for a month, so I'm taking custody of the chicken. Buck is getting really fed up with being kept in a bird cage, so I took my mom down to Costco with the truck and she loaded up a chicken coop for the back yard. I ran over small children and old people with the big flat shopping cart, which was a lot more fun than careering around with the regular cart, and the boys spent the afternoon building the little house. Zenny tried to move into it. She closed herself in and flapped and clucked very convincingly to persuade us she was a chicken, and I almost conceded, but in the end the rain drove us all in for cocoa.

I have read all the complaining homesteader articles about urban dimwits taking in chickens without being prepared for the reality of animal husbandry and understanding the importance of culling the herd/eating the old hens, and let me assure you: I am one of them. Buck will lay eggs until she decides not to, and then languish in the pen until she dies of old age, because I am totally not interested in wringing her neck, and that is that. Sorry, urban chicken people.

But don't worry, the neighbors won't mind, because the guy next door breeds fighting cocks. Anybody who dislikes the sound of URR URR-URR URR URRRRRRR is advised to stay away. I don't mind it, myself. It is the comforting sound of crickets and cicadas in these parts.

But we had better get $189 worth of eggs for the rent, young chicken.