feathers and shame

Murdel was my first true pet. She and I were inseparable. She was a brown and black speckled Bantum hen (that’s a chicken, for all you native city folk). She would let me pick her up and carry her everywhere. She would follow my three year old legs all around the yard. She would even come into the house with me. Throughout all of the eighteen years I owned chickens, she was the only one that ever was deemed worthy of that privilege. I still have a little stuffed animal that looks exactly like her that my parents bought for me when she died.
I am not sure why I love chickens so much. They are strange, rather stupid animals, although, they have an intelligence all their own. Did you know that chickens hate mice? If they see a mouse, they will attack until it stops moving. Being pecked and stomped to death is surely a very unpleasant death. And, you might think raising chickens is a rather passive pastime, but have you ever faced down a pissed off cock (rooster, for all you city fags out there)? They are terrifying and can leave you one big, bloody mess. They leap off the ground, fly at your face, and slash their spurs at your unprotected skin. Spurs resemble one to three inch “fangs” on the back of their legs, in other words, Ouch! Still, there is something so endearing in the way they waddle and cluck. They can be very dog-like in their loyalty and excitement to see you. True, it is all based from who feeds them the chicken feed they crave, but everything is conditional. If you feed me, I will love you too. Why should we expect more discernment from a chicken than we do ourselves?
Sorry, I seem to have drifted off topic. Anyway, Murdel. I loved her. I loved all my chickens. If I could figure out a way for the city to allow me to have chickens in my back yard in the city limits, I would. Damned noise and sanitation laws!
One of my greatest thrills as a kid was waiting for some of our new breeds of chicks to come in the mail (yes, you can order chickens; they have entire catalogs and everything). There is nothing quite as loveable as little yellow, brown, and black balls of fluff tottering around on little stick legs, chirping and tripping. It was also quite exciting when some of our grown hens would lay eggs and have babies of their own. We would write my friend’s names and favorite Disney characters on the eggs before they hatched. Pre-named babies.
One day, while Murdel was off looking for worms or something, dad sat me down in the yard and gave me a couple of eggs to hold while he and mom snapped my picture. I don’t know if they were Murdel’s eggs or someone else’s. Sure enough, the pictures turned out adorable. I did not yet really understand what eggs were. I knew there were baby chickens inside of them, but I didn’t quite comprehend how they got there or why they just didn’t come out. I have always been helpful. It seemed like a good thing to help the baby chickens out of their enclosures. After the pictures were taken, I decided to free my baby chicks. With one egg in each hand, I separated my hands apart. I quickly brought my hands back simultaneously and struck the eggs together. Sure enough, the shells cracked and released my chickens. Nearly formed baby chicks fell from their shells and onto the grown. There was slime and blood all over them. I could see their little hearts beating beneath their finely feathered breasts as they began to die. (They probably would have hatched on their own in less than a week.) I began to cry. I had not meant to hurt them. I simply wanted to set them free. I did not know what I was doing!



My senior year in high school. It is almost time to move to Colorado. I have the track team over for one last shebang before the season ends. By shebang, of course I mean pool party. Complete with burgers and ice cream. Yeah, I throw the wildest get-togethers.
There are about fifteen of us in the back yard. Many of the kids had never been to my house before. We swam, ate, jumped and did tricks on the trampoline, and took pictures. It was already sweltering hot for a day in May, even by Missouri standards.
Soon, one of my good friends and I are taking a freshman girl, Ashley, on a tour of the yard. We go into the chicken coop and introduce her to the chickens. She squeals and flitters back and forth on her toes because she is afraid of the chickens also because of the stench of the coop. They ain’t bottling the sent of chicken shit as a fragrance any time soon, I can tell ya. We pick up the chickens and hold them close to her. She squeals and giggles all the louder, in enjoyable fright. Soon all three of us are laughing so loud we were probably disturbing the others that were swimming. We tell her how dangerous chickens are. When you breathe in their dander, it scars your lungs, and it is irreversible. If a chicken poops in your eye, you can go blind because of the toxins in it. Both of these statements are true, or at least we think they are, they could just be farm legend. However, I have had more than one doctor tell me that my lungs are indeed scared, and when I told them I used to have chickens, they just nod their head and murmur, “Yep.”
The more Ashley screams and jitters, the more we laugh and torment her. Soon, my friend is holding Ashley’s arms behind her back and she is jumping up and down trying to get away, still laughing.
We decide to up the stakes. I get some chicken poop on my fingers, and begin to put my hand close to her face and draw it back. Ashley’s laughing and yelping increase with each taunt.
After the fifth such repetition, I go for the gold. This time I don’t take my hand away. I smear my fingers across her cheeks and on her neck. Ashley still laughs but her screams increase. Tears are rolling down my friend’s and my face as we try to catch our breath from the laughter.
“What are you doing?” I had never heard my mom’s voice so angry and so much like a growl. I turn around to see her normally beautiful face contorted in fury and disgust. “Mom,” startled, “we are just playing, we’re not trying to hurt her. We are all having fun. It is no big deal.”
“Let. Her. Go.” Mom clinches my arm so that it hurts. My face goes a brilliant red. I have never been embarrassed like this in front of friends before. “This is NOT going to be the end of this; are you trying to make her go blind?” again with the low growl. She turns to Ashley, “Come on, Sweetie, let’s get you cleaned up.”
After the scenario plays out, it is completely forgotten for years afterwards. It is not until I am going through one of my photos albums and find pictures of that party that it is brought back to my mind with vivid detail. It seems like another person with Ashley, it was so unlike my normal behavior or even contemplation. There have been several nights where I have struggled falling asleep stressing over what may have happened if I had gotten any of the chicken feces in her eyes.