Samuel Johnson wrote, “A man who is tired of chickens is tired of life.” And
yet yesterday I had drinks with someone who wished I could write of something
else. Like, maybe, Samuel Johnson.
Hard to credit, I know.
As the week went on it emerged that the chickens were not best pleased by
reports I had been applauded. It’s one thing to be a local god or chief; it’s
another to be at risk of wider recognition. Hollywood might come calling. The
supply of chicken kibble could be interrupted.
“Anything new?” Mimo asked, fishing for information.
“Not really,” I said. “There’s a chance we might put on another performance.”
Cheddar wondered if that wouldn’t be a bit expensive.
“Or risky,” Appenzeller offered.
I said, “I have more whisky.” (I paid the director a dram.)
Cheddar, “What’s whisky?”
“The water of life. It’s a Gaelic term.”
Mimo, “Why aren’t we getting any?”
Pecorino, “Pinch me, I’m Irish.”
Appenzeller, “Be gorrah.”
Because I’d just changed all the clocks, and because I thought a change of
subject might be wise, I said, apropos of nothing, “Spring forward.”
This they did. The long cold winter nights had not been wasted. You’ve not
lived until you’ve seen excerpts from “Riverdance” done by chickens.
The hawk returned, which is how I learned that a chicken’s alarm call is in the
opposite range to that of humans; our voices rise in an emergency; theirs sink
to a kind of low cooing, not unlike pigeons. I waved my arms; the hawk flew
away. Cheddar was heard to mutter something about “dismembering the
poultriarchy.” I gave her the frown I reserve for those who speak jargon.
Samuel Johnson’s affectionate name for his wife was, “Titty.”
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
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