Chicken Love

What goes best with a little cabin in the woods and goats? Chickens of course! Ain't nothin' better than fresh eggs for Suzie Homemakin'.

Speaking from experience, chickens are one of the easier farm animals to maintain (I HAVE tasted farm life, but had to abandon it for big city life in Durango). Just don't get too attached, as these cluckers tend to die easily.

I grew fond of Gertrude, Henrietta, Etta, and Merle-Girl in the few years I had them. They would keep me company on summer lunch hours in the backyard, begging for food much the way dogs do.

Having hens only (Merle-girl and Etta pictured here), they were happy enough, but seemed to lack certain fulfillment in their chicken lives. Since no roosters were allowed within town limits, I was a pathetic substitute for Chicken Love. I'd reach out to pet them and they would get excited, crouch down, stamp their feet, and lift their tails as I'd stroke their back.

Gross, I know.

But I liked it because I could show them affection, and they liked it, well, because they were horny hens. Before you judge and accuse me of chicken bestiality, know that I had the purest of maternal feelings for my hens. Please continue casting your eyes on these words, squeamish reader, to be convinced.

One evening I came home to find Henry dead, Gerti gone, and Merle with a 7 inch gash in her back (I hadn't acquired Etta yet). The neighbor's husky dog had jumped my fence and had a violent play session with my girls, leaving one dead, one mutilated and taking the third one To Go.

Merle was hiding behind a bush, her usually beady eyes listless and in shock. I could see she would live, but needed to be sewn up before she got infected. I contemplated taking her to my very expensive veterinarian, but didn't want to pay the chicken emergency room charges (for gosh sake).

So I did it myself. I put her in my deep kitchen sink (she was quietly traumatized and didn't mind), proceeded to clean and disinfect her wound, and ran a big needle with thick thread through her back (9 stitches all together). I'd compare it to preparing a rubbed turkey for thanksgiving dinner, plus feathers.

She lived two more healthy years and laid eggs for the rest of her life. Sure as shootin', whenever I'd enter the yard, she'd still run over for Chicken Love.