Friday, November 8, 2013

The trouble with chickens

Okay, so... when I was, like, ten years old, I bought some chickens at a yard sale.

Yup, you read that right. I bought CHICKENS at a YARD SALE.

They were $4 apiece, which at the time, seemed like a steal. ... Probably because I'd stolen the money I was spending at the yard sale. (This was smack in my prime of shoplifting and serial thievery. Don't ever let me tell you the story about how I used to steal suckers from The Sucker Lady's house and then sell them on the secondary market (aka: the playground at Taylor Elementary). You'd never get over what a hoodlum I was, and you'd probably have to stop reading my blog - which would punish us both.)

Anyway, the chicks were going for $4 a pop, and I somehow had $16 to burn, so... I bought four chicks.


I'm not entirely clear on how I got them home. (Maybe Hudsons dropped them off? No way did I carry four squirmy baby chickens home. ... I mean, it's not FAR - if you're not carrying chickens - but still. I doubt that I carried them myself.)

Anyway, somehow I got home with my chickens and told my parents I'd bought us a farm.

You can imagine how well that went over, I'm sure.

After much discussion on where we were going to KEEP the birds, I made a deal with my parents that if I could make them a coop, I could keep them.

Armed with a pair of wire cutters and ten able fingers, I went into the back yard and commenced building a chicken coop. Out of leftover fence.

You read that right. I cut FENCING with a pair of wire cutters and then bent and twisted the cut ends towards each other to fasten them together. With my bare hands. (Over time, I did enlist the help of the brothers, but it was my vision - and they were MY chickens - so my bloody fingers bore the brunt of the work.)

After a good summer day and a half of twisting metal, I came up with a chicken pen of sorts (heavy on the "of sorts") and my parents agreed to see how this would play out.

About a week later, the chicks started to grow up. As in, get bigger, fill out, turn red (they were Rhode Island Red, which I thought were just bee-yoo-tiful), and...


It turns out none of them were CHICKENS. Oh, no. They were ROOSTERS. All four of them.

Insert a whole heck of a lot of pent up testosterone-laden hostility here. (Also, you can kiss all my future egg income goodbye.)

Pretty quickly, the roosters got a little (read: a lot) feisty. One day, Spencer went out to check on them, and he got pecked in the eye.

And that was the day my parents made me get rid of my beloved chickens those hateful roosters. I can't remember if they took them back to the Hudsons (home of the ill-fated yard sale), or what, but all I know is that I didn't turn out to be a very good egg farmer. (Which is just as well, because my homemade "coop" probably would have rusted over, come winter.)

And I haven't bought a chicken since. Not even one.

1 comment:

shana said...

You make me laugh!!! :)