“Chicken murderer!”
These words had echoed in my head while the sunshine filtered softly into my husband’s office; his worked laid out in the form of piles of papers and the low hum of a printer in the next room. I could only look at him. The soft chucking voices of our hens outside his window; they scratched the dirt for bugs and seeds in the sandy soil by the pond. My thought went to Parmi, it was short for chicken parmesan. I named them all after food, expressly all things poultry. It was to remind the man before me, who had been raised in the land of “Leave it to Beaver” – they were not pets!
Obviously, it had failed. I knew it might when he insisted on putting them in the guest room until they no longer needed a heat lamp. Every time I entered the room it smelled of sawdust and our cat’s desperation as they stood on the dog crate with drooling desperation.
I slowly and carefully explained why I had to dispatch our sick chicken: no there wasn’t anything a vet could do to help her, no we could not quarantine her because we did not have the space, and it would be inhuman to let her suffer. In my mind I was screaming “It’s a F#@&-ing chicken – just like the one we had for dinner last night!!” There were two reasons why I couldn’t say this: one, I was afraid he would want us to eliminate chicken totally from our diet or worst become vegans and two, he was truly a gentle soul who did not even like to kill bugs. Out of my two mate of choice I have had in this life – George is my favorite.
This wasn’t the first time I had been called a ‘chicken killer’, though this time it was deserved. It was over twenty years ago when I was falsely accused. I thought of this event as I drove the dearly departed Parmi to the dump; our land was to rocky to dig a predator’s proof grave. George had requested that I drive to the dump with the truck lights on in solemn memory. I have done crazier things for less worthy reasons. I did refuse to say a prayer for her soul as I threw her in the hopper – I gave her a moment of silence instead.
The last time I was dealing with a similar situation was on a July afternoon in 1991. . ….
I was reading in our bed (mine and husband #1). My bedside table was stacked with quilting blocks and child rearing books; Allen had animal husbandry books and farm magazines with his ever-present alarm clock. He just like husband #2 also grew up in the suburbs but with the dream of someday being a farmer. This was a man who knew that livestock should be well taken care of but were kept for food production only and if you let them run loose, like we did, some would go missing.
I had grown up milking goats, feeding chickens, and hauling water to the barn during January freezes, which meant if you spilled water on your pants it froze – instantly. It was a way of life and unlike Facebook we did not have the time nor inclination to knit sweaters for our chicken and goats – let alone try to figure out how to entertain them with xylophones and swings.
That night I learned it was all an illusion and he had trouble with the concept – it is just a chicken.
That day had been a hot day full of chores and yard work which we ended with a trip to the dam for a dip in the local swimming hole. After arriving home with dinner, baths, bedtime stories, and several glasses of water later out of the way, we had finally been able to settled down for the night – at least four of the five of us did. I had pillows to my back and a book in my hands ready for some “me time”. When Allen came in from putting the animals to bed, he informed me that one of the laying hens (all of whom laid nothing) was missing. They weren’t in their usual haunts. I offered an unconcerned statement that she was most likely tucked up under the car for the night and would be home in the morning. Childhood experience had taught me animals always came home when the sun rose motivated by their stomachs.
Morning came and my new moniker was born. It was four in the morning when I remembered . . . . . . we were at the dam and I had been sitting on the bank watching the children and Allen splashing and swimming. When a blond little cherub came running back down to the waters edge for a forgotten toy. She announced to the beach at large that a baby chicken was in the parking lot. I was not thinking at the time of our chickens who in my mind were more like college age, which explained my attitude towards them, ‘why don’t you have a job!’ My mindset was a baby (or chick) was yellow, fuzzy, cute and stayed home.
Our biddies normally roosted under my car every afternoon. It was the only shady spot on our three-acre tree barren lot. We had shooed the girls out from under the vehicle before we left for the river. However, one must have been on the axle and road to the river. She then probably hopped down and gone exploring to find her sisters once we were parked.
My imagination immediately went to her perched under the car with the wind blowing her feathers, tossing her head in a devil may care way – maybe little sunglasses on her beak. The vision was interrupted by the sound of Allen’s voice. He was going down to see if she was still at the dam. What? The sun wasn’t even up yet.
Dressed in his uniform, ready to start his shift, he took his cruiser to find the runaway. I fully expected him to flip open his note pad and take down this new information. I would be put down as an informant to add to the mounting clues. This was a man who wrestled drunks in ditches, scowled at old ladies for speeding, and had his resting asshole-cop face mastered. Now he was going down to the dam to search for a chicken? She most likely had been eaten by a fox by now; we both knew this.
Should he be carrying a gun?
He came back fifteen minutes later and told me of the continuing saga of this missing chicken. Evidently, while at the swimming hole, he used his cruiser’s spot light with his State paid skills of fugitive hunting and data collecting. Attracted by the light the town’s part-time police chief interrupted the search. He worked across the river at his real job with the electric company. The chief must have been expecting some excitement: a body, searching for evidence on a robbery, anything but the truth. The man had a conflicting look of disappointment and horror that a man of law would be doing something as ridiculous as looking for a runaway bird. In this part of the country a cow would have been acceptable; their value was in the thousands, but a bird? He said he didn’t think he should tell the men what truly was going on – I am curious on what he did tell them? The big bad Trooper was looking for a missing button?
My hubby arrived back at the house upset which was compounded by missing his breakfast and topped off by my giggling. He grabbed his hat and with a growl he pointed it at me. “You are a chicken killer,” he growled as he stormed out the door.
I would like to say this was the end of the story, but a husband who growled for over a month anytime the word ‘chicken’ was mentioned – even for dinner, made it become a family drama. The proportions of which my children felt the necessity to tell anyone who would listen: family, friends . . .. … even ladies at the hairdresser. The story circulated to such an extent that while I was picking up some work from a client, four towns over, she recognized my oldest son. She recounted the story of ‘the case of the missing chicken’ which he had told to her; then reacted with shocked disbelief when I admitted it was true. I was starting to feel like I was in one of my children’s “Nate the Great” books.
As in most cases when you stop looking for something is when you find it, and so it was with Allen’s missing piece of poultry. Over a year later, we did find the chicken at a local farm, and they had heard our story. They asked if I wanted it back and I told her no thank you. After all she wouldn’t have remembered us being taken away so young and she was healthy and happy – that was what was most important. I told Allen, hoping for him to finally have some closure for the ache in his heart.
No, it all started again because I did not take the chicken back – nor did I even think about negotiating visitation rights!
I looked at Hubby #2, then at the grave he had dug with a pick axe for our second chicken. Barbecue, met her untimely end by a local dog. George said a small prayer and started to fill in the hole. I simply stood there and wondered how did I end up married to men who had an unnatural love for poultry? I decided for my sanity, and his gentle heart, to give the others to my son and his young family. I could not take much more of these suburban chicken lovers.
