[lit-ideas] Sunday Twofer
- From: David Ritchie <profdritchie@xxxxxxxxx>
- To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
- Date: Sun, 14 Jul 2013 11:15:15 -0700
I could be the Jane Goodall of chickens. Now there's a career. We've built a
fabric tunnel to connect the chicken coop to the larger chicken run. You have
to see it to get the full picture, but if you imagine that there's a path to
the garbage can which cannot be permanently blocked you'll understand, if not
the question, at least why fabric is the answer. When I go to let the chickens
out my faithful border collie looks with pleading eyes, "Can I be involved?
I'll be your best friend." It's not, on the face of it a persuasive argument;
he'll be my best friend no matter what if, by "best friend," is meant, "one who
lies on your feet and snores." I've found the best thing to do is to chuck the
ball before proceeding; it takes the edge of his urge to help. Having set the
fabric chute up, I opened the door to the coop. "Whaaat?" said the chickens.
I explained in my best English that they were free to run and that this is what
every egg seller in every store tells me is a chicken's first desire.
"Whaaaat?"
"Free-ish range," I explain.
"Whaaaaat... is that big thing?"
"The dog's behind me," I say, "I gave him the ball."
"Whaaaaat?" I look. Sonsie the Maine Coon cross is sitting in the tunnel
going, "This is fun; I could get into this." While I move said cat, the
chickens escape, which delights the dog, who attempts to round them up. The
chickens run for the safety of their coop and hunker down. "Whaaaaat?" I put
the dog in the house. The cat loses interest. The chickens have a roundtable
conference and decide this time they're good to go. Next thing I know they're
out the other end of the tunnel, all having a bath in the dirt, looking happy
as clams. Or chickens. In the mist. If we had mist.
On a busy day I go to the coop in the evening. (They were of course fed and
watered in the morning). A crowd greets me at the gate, enthusiastic,
energetic.
"He's here and he's finally brought...whaaaat? Whaaaat? Weeds? Yesterday we
had windfalls, apples and plums...whaaaat?"
Farmer Sucker, me, I go and get them whaaaaat they waaaant and yeah verily they
are happy. I hope one day you see chickens tearing, like jackels, at an apple,
as if your life depended on it. "It's mine." Elbow, elbow, gobble, gobble,
swallow. It was this way with weeds once too, but they were gateway drugs
compared to fruit.
David Ritchie,
acknowledging that Gary Larson drew, "Chickens in the Mist"
Portland, Oregon
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