I am pleased to announce to my oodles of readers, that I have now achieved “god status” with a certain segment of my followers. Indeed, they flock from side to side as I pass, clearly prevented from swarming me only by the reinforced barrier that divides us. I am grateful for this intervention.
They clamor for me; of that there can be no doubt. They raise their voices in unison, pleading for my attention, begging for a tidbit of time from me, and maybe, just maybe, something more. They know from experience that at some point during the day-every day-I will pause in my farmer duties to share a pint with them, a pint of cracked corn. As if you weren’t already aware, chickens do love their corn.
That I am perceived as a god by my flock of chickens cannot be disputed. Once upon a time, such was not the case-I was the demon from hell. Assaulted by the cacophonous clamor, constantly colliding caustically with my ears, I returned the attack. Bellowing had no effect; the same could be said for throwing rocks against the outside of the coop.
My bad.
Getting rid of the rooster that mimicked the “egg song” every time one of the hens went off, helped considerably. I remain in Meadow’s debt forever, and demonstrate such by purchasing all of my feed supplies from her shop in town. Appreciatively. She did not have to go out of her way to take that rooster under her protective wing, and it soon had a happy home.
The turning point for my change in attitude, came when I assumed full responsibility for maintaining the chickens. This occurred when Gluten-Free Mama found herself with more significant issues to deal with than chickens. Just as listening to the Giants back in 1974, when I couldn’t listen to Da Bums, made me a Giants fan, attending the chickens has made me a chicken fan.
Somehow, that statement lacks the glamor I had hoped to achieve but nonetheless, I have become more than just fond of the little savages. I keep their home maintained, a mutually beneficial arrangement if ever there were one, and I stay on top of gathering the eggs, another benefit from the clucky ones.
I call them savages because I have been around them long enough to recognize the origins all of those references to the hen house. I note the pecking order, and their willingness-nay, eagerness-to gross me out at every second of every day.
Don’t misunderstand me. They are beautiful, fat and sassy, and obviously happy to keep the farm well supplied with eggs and fertilizer. They just can be so mean to one another it defies comprehension. Might makes right in the hen house, and all I can do is make sure that everything is spread out for maximum accessibility for all.
When I first came on board, they must have been stunned to go from GF Mama, gentle and kind, to the farm fiend. And yet I was providing food, water and whatever else I had to do to convince GF Mama that she no longer had to fret about chickens. Or me and chickens.
I lavish Miners’ lettuce on them, send the kitchen compost greens their way, and now, the crowning treat of all, corn. Too much is not good but a little corn goes a long way. I also use it to get them from point A to Point B, as easily as you can say Hansel and Gretel.
At this point in the game I no longer even need the corn to convince them to follow me. They adore me. I try not to let it go to my head, but it’s hard not to feel something. You know? Luckily their adulation has not prevented me from enjoying one of my favorite breakfasts: a well-crafted omelet.
I am inordinately sorry about that, girls.
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