The following is a guest-post from Nashville attorney Rob Rutherford, Esq. While Aberrant Plumage typically focuses on wild birds, Mr. Rutherford’s post offers a peek into something we know nothing about: the joy of living with domesticated birds—namely, his beloved chickens.
“Stop staring at me.”
Silence.
“I mean it. I don’t have time for your mental games and, quite honestly, you’re starting to creep me out.”
Silence.
“Fine! I relent! Just please just stop staring at me with those beady eyes. I’ll go get the worms if you’ll just release me from your damnable gaze!”
Smug silence.
Bok Bok and Queen Egg propose a new, more aggressive treats schedule.
This is a conversation I had recently with a chicken. Where has my life gone that I’ve come to this point, where a chicken is giving me orders? Perhaps I should back up and start this story a year ago. Back then I was a regular guy—father, attorney, and man-about-town. I knew nothing about birds and nothing about chickens, other than the comedic wit of Foghorn Leghorn, who I believe is some sort of rare large breed of chicken.
One day the idea struck me, as ideas occasionally do, that I should buy some chickens. This idea was fueled by my desire to be more self-reliant in the kitchen, my concern for the welfare of chickens in mass farms, and, most importantly, because my wife said I could.
I devised a plan to start a chicken empire. I would be the urban chicken farmer, and people would flock to my home to see my flock. I also made a decision to incorporate as many chicken puns as possible into my everyday repertoire. So, I crafted a chicken coop with the help of my dad one afternoon, and it was off to the farm to buy some chickens.
“What kind of chickens do you want?” asked the kindly farmer.
“I don’t know. Ones that lay eggs and don’t crow when the sun comes up,” I responded.
And at that moment it became clear: the only thing I knew about chickens is that hens equal delicious eggs and roosters equal waking at sunrise, which I find inconvenient. So, with significant assistance I selected four hens of differing breeds. Chickens fall into a surprisingly large number of breed varieties, depending on their agricultural purpose, preferred climate, and laying capabilities, among other factors. I wound up with four beautiful birds: a Production Red, a Golden Laced Wynadotte, a Silver Laced Wynadotte, and a Light Brama. I gave them hilarious (to me) names, in furtherance of my previously-mentioned dedication to witty puns. Henceforth they would be known as Queen Egg, Miss Hensworth, Bok Bok, and Chicken the Fourth.
So, here we are one year later, and I find I’ve gained a huge new appreciation for my feathered friends. The most surprising thing I’ve learned is how smart they are. They recognize and differentiate the various humans who care for them. They know where to find the coolest places on sweltering summer days. They know that the treats are stored in our kitchen. Treats consist of dried mealworms, and they love those worms more than anything else on this Earth. They will stare at you with one eye (a chicken, like many birds, can’t see particularly well with both eyes, due to their placement on the side of the chicken’s head), and threaten to go on egg-laying strike until you fetch the worms. I’ve found it best not to argue with them on this point; they seem to have the upper hand… or wing… whatever.
Queen Egg, Chicken the Fourth, and Bok Bok: mealworm connoisseurs.
The chickens have become a part of the family in the last year. That means we’ve celebrated with them when they laid their first egg (the chickens seemed unimpressed with their own feat, even after I explained to them how delicious eggs were). That also means we’ve mourned when poor Miss Hensworth flapped her way off this mortal coil to join her ancestors in poultry Valhalla.
So, dear Reader, perhaps you are asking yourself, “Should I raise chickens?” The answer is an unequivocal yes. They are remarkably self-sufficient. They will eat almost anything (including, but not limited to, bread, bananas, peanuts, dead birds, pizza, slugs, and all the grass/weeds in your yard). They’ve tolerated temperatures from 0 to 100, and never complained. At least I don’t think they’ve complained. I haven’t quite figured out their complex language of clucks just yet.
Perhaps you are also asking, “Can you please just give me some delicious eggs?” The answer is a firm maybe. Come by and I might be able to spare one. I’m currently engaged in worm-related negotiations with the chickens, so you should probably call first.
If any readers are interested in learning more about raising urban chickens, BackYardChickens.com is a great online resource, and I’m always eager to talk about my chickens with anyone possessing the patience to listen. Feel free to contact at me, Rob, at olaf00@hotmail.com with a subject line of “Chickens,” or something to that effect.
Aberrant Plumage 