Chickens, chickens, chickens
The other night the power went out at around dinner time, and didn’t come back on until noon the next day. During this time the water mysteriously disappeared as well. I thought the gas would probably be next, but I was wrong—it was the cable, which won’t come back on until at least Monday or whenever someone in Maputo goes to pay for a new subscription.
But while the lights were out, I had a nice time sitting out on the steps next to our pet chickens, looking at the stars of the Southern Hemisphere. The Milky Way really is milky—I think that’s kind of weird, personally. Midnight and Lefty think so, too.
We inherited these chickens from the boss’s 8-year-old daughter and we’re prohibited from eating them. The house staff thinks we’re positively out of our minds for keeping chickens as pets, and then they don’t understand why we don’t want them in the house. So we often will find one or both chickens wandering through the hallway or popping into the living room to say hi. Sometimes they’ll come into the screened porch during devotions in the morning; they plop right down and listen respectively, then at the last “Amen” they jump up and start wandering around again.
I’ve told their previous caretaker that no matter what her parents say, she can’t have any more chicks unless she’s willing to let us eat them after she’s through. We can’t have a ranch for un-eatable chickens. I do like them, though, I guess. Being so isolated from friends and family, it’s comforting to have something to be affectionate towards, even if it is a chicken. Although I do find my thoughts wandering around questions like “How long is the natural life-span of a chicken?” and “If it dies, will we be able to eat it then, or will it be diseased or just too tough?” Because they’re nice-looking chickens, well-fed and happy.
Maybe if they get run over by a car… not that I’m hoping for this, but that would probably be the best solution for eating some good chicken, unlike our usual scrawny, bare, pathetic sit-and-poop chickens from a cage. Cars go by at crazy speeds, and last month April and I were just standing out front and totally saw a chicken (this one was wild, I think) fall victim to a hit-and-run. No external wounds, and the chicken was still alive at first, with the presence of mind to get off the road, but then it laid down and died right on the steps of our office. Pre-tenderized, too.
So in case you’ve been keeping track, I’ve just formed chickens into three classes:
But while the lights were out, I had a nice time sitting out on the steps next to our pet chickens, looking at the stars of the Southern Hemisphere. The Milky Way really is milky—I think that’s kind of weird, personally. Midnight and Lefty think so, too.
We inherited these chickens from the boss’s 8-year-old daughter and we’re prohibited from eating them. The house staff thinks we’re positively out of our minds for keeping chickens as pets, and then they don’t understand why we don’t want them in the house. So we often will find one or both chickens wandering through the hallway or popping into the living room to say hi. Sometimes they’ll come into the screened porch during devotions in the morning; they plop right down and listen respectively, then at the last “Amen” they jump up and start wandering around again.
I’ve told their previous caretaker that no matter what her parents say, she can’t have any more chicks unless she’s willing to let us eat them after she’s through. We can’t have a ranch for un-eatable chickens. I do like them, though, I guess. Being so isolated from friends and family, it’s comforting to have something to be affectionate towards, even if it is a chicken. Although I do find my thoughts wandering around questions like “How long is the natural life-span of a chicken?” and “If it dies, will we be able to eat it then, or will it be diseased or just too tough?” Because they’re nice-looking chickens, well-fed and happy.
Maybe if they get run over by a car… not that I’m hoping for this, but that would probably be the best solution for eating some good chicken, unlike our usual scrawny, bare, pathetic sit-and-poop chickens from a cage. Cars go by at crazy speeds, and last month April and I were just standing out front and totally saw a chicken (this one was wild, I think) fall victim to a hit-and-run. No external wounds, and the chicken was still alive at first, with the presence of mind to get off the road, but then it laid down and died right on the steps of our office. Pre-tenderized, too.
So in case you’ve been keeping track, I’ve just formed chickens into three classes:
- Midnight and Lefty, and other fat, juicy, well-fed and happy chickens (of which I’ve only seen one other—yes, we were driving along, saw it on the side of the road, and both of us yelled, “Hey look at that fat chicken! That’s some good eatin’!”);
- Market-bought chickens, described above; and
- Random chickens, in between the first two in quality, and which might be wild or someone’s livestock but just wander around town with no owners in sight.
Among this last class is also a turkey and a rooster, who do no help to those who sleep lightly, clucking all night. The rooster is said to start really crowing at 6:20 each morning, but lately has been drifting earlier and earlier at about 3-minute increments each day. The turkey, well if we haven’t found an owner by Thanksgiving….
posted by Art Shotwell at 9:44 AM
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