Raising Chickens Can Be an Adventure
(Page 2 of 2)
July/August 2009
Jerry Schleicher
Sometimes one of the hens would suddenly discover her instinct for reproduction and decide to sit on her eggs. This could complicate my egg-collecting duties. Young hens that weren’t quite sure why they were sitting on their eggs could easily be shooed away from the nest. The same couldn’t always be said for the cranky old biddies that were apt to peck angrily at my hands when I attempted to retrieve their eggs.
RELATED CONTENT
Certain beverages and ordering poultry do not mix....
Volunteers are the power behind North Dakota’s nonprofit Farm Rescue....
Benefit of local art guild the main purpose behind festival....
Wisconsin dairy farm uses Holstein waste to produce clean energy....
Raising chicks from scratch – or nearly scratch – isn't all that difficult....
The chicken foreman job I most despised was cleaning out the nests. Chickens, unfortunately, have a predilection for fouling their own nest. I would put off the job as long as possible, then, holding my nose with one hand, scrape out each box with a short-handled hoe before relining it with fresh straw.
Each boxful of chicks my folks ordered included young roosters as well as pullets. This was not a problem, since young roosters fried up just as well as the hens. But, invariably, our farmyard would be dominated by one crusty old rooster who lorded it over the hens, the barnyard cats and even our dog. Once he tried to face me down, but as chicken foreman, I wasn’t having any of it.
The same could not be said of my youngest brother, Jeff. One summer, when Jeff was perhaps 4 or 5 years old, our resident rooster decided to have a bit of fun with him. He began waiting in ambush for Jeff each time the little fellow stepped outdoors. No sooner would my brother come outside to play, than the rooster would come running at him, flapping his wings and pecking at Jeff’s legs and feet. This, of course, resulted in much screaming and crying.
His mission of human domination accomplished, the rooster would then crow loudly, presumably to inform his harem that he was still cock of the walk. And then skulk off to hide around the corner of the coop, where he waited for Jeff’s next appearance.
The rooster attacks went on for weeks. As the oldest brother, I found Jeff’s dilemma hilarious. Our mother did not. One Saturday morning, my mother sent me out to catch Mr. Leghorn. She met me at the chopping block with a freshly sharpened axe, and with one fell swoop, the rooster became Sunday’s chicken stew.
The rooster’s reign of terror thus came to an end. But to this day, Jeff will not eat chicken. Not even in revenge.
Jerry Schleicher is a country humorist and cowboy poet from Parksville, Missouri, with some not-so-fond memories of chickens down on the farm.
Page:
<< Previous 1 | 2 |