[lit-ideas] Re: Sunday Twofer
- From: Ursula Stange <ursula@xxxxxxxxxx>
- To: "lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx" <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- Date: Sun, 14 Jul 2013 14:28:24 -0400
FAN-tastic, Mr. Ritchie. Where are you again? On the Northwest Coast? And
you don't have mist? Up here in the middle of Canada, we're only allowed
humidity. Bad in summer. Bad in winter. And our municipal laws don't allow
chickens, free range or otherwise. Happy egg hunt....
On 2013-07-14, at 2:15 PM, David Ritchie <profdritchie@xxxxxxxxx> wrote:
> 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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