Most of you know that I am a potential “crazy cat lady.”
Despite the fact that I am, in essence, operating a rest home for geriatric
felines, complete with deafness, senility and horrifically inappropriate litter
box behavior, I still dream of being welcomed into the local cat shelter with
the words, “Pick out as many as you’d like, “Susan Says.” What I bet you don’t know is that I have
always wanted a chicken of my very own, too.
Or, if possible, multiple chickens.
The only thing between
me and a yard filled with happy, well-adjusted chickens providing fresh eggs as
well as a pleasing sound track of clucking and scratching, is my husband who thinks
the cats are more than enough. There also might be a few pesky town zoning
restrictions about farm animals on one’s property but that’s another story.
Over the years, thanks to Seth’s selfishness, I was ready to settle for just one chicken. Based on a favorite series of childhood stories of how my mother, in a Brooklyn apartment, had a chicken for a pet, I felt this was not only a family tradition but also entirely plausible.
I've long harbored somewhat deranged visions of happy times with a friendly pullet pecking about in the living room, sitting on my lap during “Dancing with the Stars” or nestling on the kitchen counter as I putter with the pots and pans. Accordingly, I launched an annual campaign – beginning when the baby chicks arrive at Agway – to achieve this goal.
Seth has been steadfast. No chickens. Or, he suggested, I
could divorce him and replace him with a chicken. While this was never entirely
out of the question, the unpleasant specter of chicken poop, always lurking in
the recesses of my mind, kept this at bay.
How did one deal with a pooping chicken? I’d never discussed the daily
logistics of chicken ownership with my mother during our trips down Memory
Lane. We only talked about the fun stuff. Ultimately, my mother’s pet was “taken
to a farm” and we’d never addressed the possibility that “farm” might have been euphemistic for” fricassee,”
either. Based on my mother’s innocent smile, I don’t think this occurred to
her.
 |
| So do I. |
This year, while visiting the chicks at a farm supply store,
I upped my campaign and went after Seth with all my wiles which, unfortunately,
are neither cunning nor seductive. I am, however, an accomplished whiner and
sniveler and, later that night, after a beer or six, Seth uttered the magic
words. “You can have one chicken.” It was a true miracle! I was stunned….and scared. Now it was real.
 |
| Repeat after me: "Awwwwwwww." |
His requirement was that I first thoroughly research the
matter and, happy to oblige, I discovered that lots of people do, indeed, keep
a chicken in the house. Apparently, chickens are smart and social and even get
along with cats. The big problem is that, if you do not want chicken poop all
over your home, they must wear diapers.
You read that correctly: Diapers. Chickens in diapers.
Diapered Chickens. No matter how I combined the words, I could not believe it.
 |
| Diagram of diapered chicken |
Certain this was a joke, I googled on and it ain’t no joke.
House chickens wear diapers. In fact, there are instructional videos on youtube
showing insane people wrestling chickens into diapers of which there are many
types and designs. They cost about fifteen bucks a pop and even come in
seasonal designs called, among other things, “Christmas Poinsettia” and
“Cranberry Swirl.”
And, like that, my lifelong fantasy of having a pet chicken, went away forever.
 |
| An actual diapered chicken. |
I may do a lot of
crazy things but diapering a chicken will never be one of them. As I sat by the
computer, I could think only of the song from that wonderful record album of
yesteryear, “Bat out of Hell” by Meatloaf and I sang quietly to myself, “I would do anything for
love, but I won’t do that.” I used to
wonder what Meatloaf was implying with those lyrics and now I think I know.
Neither he, nor I, will ever diaper a chicken. And that, my friends, is that.*
A great song....even if it is actually about diapering chickens.
*I do, however, thank Seth for his generosity and will reward
him with a nice tray of chicken parm.
I have never heard of chicken diapers before. I guess we do learn something new every day. I wonder if they also make baby wipes especially for chickens.
ReplyDeleteAs a child, I had a pet hen and rooster. They were hatched in a homemade incubator in the house, but when they were big enough they lived outside. They were bantam chickens. The hen was a little skittish and wasn't much of a pet. The rooster was very tame for my Dad. The rooster would lay on its back on my dad's lap.
But when it came to me, I was about 5 years old at the time, the rooster was a terrorist. He would chase me and knock me down and kick and scratch me with the huge spur claws on the backs of his legs. He hated kids. The neighborhood kids would tease him by walking outside of the chain link fence and he would run along the inside of the fence kicking at them, but spurring the chain link fence instead. He would do this until his legs bled or my mom or dad chased the kids away.
It got to the point where I refused to go in the backyard because of the rooster. About that time a young man who worked at a pet shop wanted the rooster and hen. So the rooster and hen went to stay with him. Really. Not fricasseed.
Still, to this day, I sometimes think I would like to raise a couple of chickens (no roosters), but our municipality doesn't allow chickens.