[lit-ideas] Sunday Something
- From: David Ritchie <profdritchie@xxxxxxxxx>
- To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
- Date: Sun, 5 Oct 2014 11:22:06 -0700
Being in sole charge of the chickens is not normally onerous; you give them
fresh water, check the food supply, say "Good morning," let them out. In the
evening if it's not raining and there's time, you have a bit of a chat, watch
the light on the trees, chuck bread or chips on the straw under Fort Squawk,
close the outer door and let them put themselves to bed. One day this week,
things were different. Having done all of the above except put the girls to
bed, I fetched the chips bag and crackled it. All save Appenzeller came
running up. Where was she? To the irritation of the four, I waited, repeating
the noise.
"Yes, we're here."
"Look down if you would."
"Right at your feet."
"Your feet."
I walked up the steps and around to the concrete patio, four in tow and
muttering. I let out a shout. The side gate was open. I'm guessing that
someone going door-to-door to sell windows or to raise money for some cause had
decided our back door was actually an entrance. Maybe it was someone casing
the house. You can imagine that conversation.
"Hello," says Peccorino.
"Are you a burglar?"
"What's a burglar?"
"It's what the dog's for."
Maybe we should put up a notice? "This is not an entrance." But then there'd
be the Magritte problem; burglars might think it was art. These thoughts
helped me cope with a rising sense of fear that Appenzeller had been eaten and
that I'd find a pile of feathers somewhere.
"Shall we step out?"
"No," I said, "I'm going alone. You stay here."
"Be careful. We were out earlier."
You could see signs all along the side of the house; they'd scratched between
the willows and worked their way past the celtic stone circle and into the
front garden. It was, I realized, a sensible route; they'd stuck to cover,
working their way like an infantry patrol in enemy territory. I shook the bag
of chips and then tried, "Bu, bu, bu, Bob," which is my imitation of one kind
of chicken call.
Came the advice from behind our gate, "Actually none of us goes by 'Bob.'"
Jeeves appeared, maybe thinking I had forgotten how to call him. He took one
look at the cluster of chickens behind the gate and decided the front door
might be a better option.
I asked, "So where's Appenzeller?"
"No idea."
"Did she cross the road?"
"Why would a chicken cross the road?"
I decided to lock the four in and go off in search. I checked one final and
unlikely possibility--that Appenzeller was already in bed. Sure enough...there
she was, nicely tucked up. Must have been an exhausting excursion.
For days now I've been waiting for the last guppy to die. The tank is down to
the equivalent of one Confederate widow clinging on. When she floats sideways,
all will be gone. They've had a good run, or swim. I wonder if I should make
a memorial plaque.
Refried beans, runner beans and beets went out on the gravel together. Sounds
like the beginning of a joke. The chickens were sheltering from unseasonal
heat, deep in the shade of the juniper bush, all except for Appenzeller who has
gone broody. Post traumatic front garden experience disorder? Peccorino was
the first to investigate the offering, with Mimo and Cheddar not far behind. P
and M each took a try of the refrieds and then set to wiping their beaks clean.
Cheddar had a go; same response. Rocky came running up and officiously told
them all to stand back. She's become quite the bully, also since the great
escape. If a chicken can laugh up its sleeve, that's what the three of them
were doing. Sure enough Rocky got beans stuck on her beak. The others walked
off, ignoring beets and runners. Cheddar circled back. Later I asked Cheddar
whether she had found a dignified solution to the sticky beak issue, "Bugger
dignity," she said, "it's FOOD!"
After twenty four hours of fermentation I gave the Riesling grapes one final
press, closed their juice in the carboy and wondered what to do with the skins.
I figured they might make a good evening treat for chickens. Appenzeller was
already in bed but Rocky, Mimo, Peccorino and the lagging Cheddar followed me
to the compost heap where I dumped my cargo in a single pile. Rocky climbed on
top of the pile and challenged all comers. I chased her off and divided the
stash into smaller piles. Rocky tried rushing from one to the next, claiming
all. Cheddar and the others just kept moving. Soon they were all enjoying
happy hour. It occurred to me that even a small amount of alcohol might not be
good for a chicken, so I cut them off by rattling the chip bag. They followed
me home to Fort Squawk singing "Tipperary," which has become a favorite.
Appenzeller greeted them like Tam O'Shanter's wife.
David Ritchie,
Portland,
Oregon------------------------------------------------------------------
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