Portland has once again become the site of protest. There came a tapping on
the window of the door. I looked out to see three angry chickens. I opened,
“Yes?”
Appenzeller, “Our rights are magenta.”
“Come again?”
Mimo cleared her throat, “I know I agreed not to be the lead speaker, but I
think you’ve started on the wrong foot.”
Appenzeller shuffled her feet, looked down, tried again. “Our lefts are
magenta.”
Pecorino stared at hers, “Mine isn’t.”
“I’m not following.”
Mimo, “The word we want rhymes.”
Appenzeller, “What rhymes with feets?”
Mimo, “With ‘rights.’”
I winked at her, “Difficult day?”
Mimo, “Not the most promising students, these two.”
Appenzeller, “You said to remember it was a color speaking about. Mauve?
Mauve doesn’t rhyme with left *or* right.”
I hurried them along, “Do you think you could step back for a moment and let
Mimo have a go? I mean she’s had a rough period, what with the body shaming
and so on.”
Pecorino, “What’s body shaming?”
Mimo, “Appenzeller pecking everyone is what god’s on about. And claiming the
food’s all hers.”
Appenzeller, “I just want to be fat. Nothing shameful about that.”
Mimo, “Violet. Violet is the word you’re looking for.”
Appenzeller, “I am? Well done, comrade.”
“Comrade?”
Pecorino, “We’re here in solidarity.”
“Is that what you’re in?”
Appenzeller puffed herself up a wee bit further. I said, for the fun of it,
“No doubting you’re nice and fat. Almost edible.”
She deflated, with a bit of a worried look. I could see she was digesting the
notion she might be somehow involved in the food chain.
Mimo, “Appenzeller wants to say that our rights are in violet.”
“Thank you for letting me know what color they are,” I said, and closed the
door.
The lack of light really hasn’t helped. The smart form of squirrel has, I
believe already gone into hibernation. As far as I’m concerned, they have the
right idea. Trying to get work done on days when there is so little light…well
one needs an incentive. Maybe I should promise myself that if I grade all
eighty student paper submissions, I can set fire to the Neverbudge on December
21? Up Helly Aa, with an audience of chickens, could prove motivating, don’t
you think? We are living through very strange circumstances and we all do our
best to make allowances, but when I send a bucket down the well of patience it
does not always return to the surface with the necessary measure of balm.
How did Garrison Keillor always begin? “It has been a quiet week in Lake
Wobegon.” Nothing could be further from the truth hereabouts, at least from
the point of view of chickens. First, the weather has been awful. A local
company used to run ads about how there is no such thing as bad weather, you
just have to buy and wear the right kind of protective gear. Chickens do not
have this option. At least Mimo has grown back feathers on her neck and so is
as well-protected from the others, but what they all need is a Lewis and Clarke
refuge or two: beaver hat, woolen cloak, purgative. Maybe they don’t need a
purgative and I’m not even sure L and C had woolen clothing, but I suspect they
did. The advantage of a beaver hat was that it was both waterproof and warm.
Chickens get eaves and other kinds of shelter, a plentiful supply of food and
generally a quiet life, but not this week. This week we had someone blow
detritus off our roof with one of those noisy machines and wash windows, which
involved much banging around with ladders. The chickens took refuge in Fort
Squawk and declared they simply were not coming out. Even when the guy
accidentally left the garden gate open, they weren’t going for it. People in
wode may declare themselves in favor of, “Freedom”; chickens in this light and
in this weather and with this amount of noise are not having that. Fresh
bedding and plenty of warmth and kibble better than doing a Vasco da Gama any
day.
Appenzeller started cock-a-doodle-doing outside the kitchen door, which made me
think a predator may have found them. Out Hamish and I rushed. We counted
one, two…where’s three? I looked in all of Mimo’s usual hiding places, tried
to think as I imagine she does, came up blank. Appenzeller continued crying
out, right beside Hamish’s outdoor kennel. Eventually it occurred to me to
look inside. Sitting on Hamish’s bedding, in the pleasant warmth, dryness and
quiet, there was Mimo going, “What?”
I nodded and said to the other two, “Can’t find her. She’ll turn up though,
sure as eggs is eggs.”
Pecorino, “What a strange expression that is.”
When I had a moment I stepped out to ask Mimo what inviolate rights she thought
chickens might have.
“The right to bare arms,” was her instant reply. “We’ve got bare legs; thought
if our arms were the same way, we might be able to hug.”
What can you say? Can’t argue with that logic.
“Everyone wants a hug,” was the best I could do.
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
