Chickens in the Basement

I love to write and I love to laugh. When I write, I get to the point quick. My stories would fit on the back of a postcard. They usually make me chuckle. And you know what they say, "It's all about me!"

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Animal Husbandry

You might be a redneck if you have to have the "I am not your bitch" talk with your rooster. Let me explain...


When Skippy was hatched, The Girls weren't interested in adding another chick to their brood (I assume they also knew he was going to be another boy!) I found him lying on his back, feet in the air, struggling to stand on the floor of the hen house. I scooped him up, brought him in and turned him into a house chicken. My brother was mortified and Tony called him "a factory reject"!

My first clue that Skippy was a boy was when he wrestled my husband's fleece lined bedroom shoe into submission on the bathroom floor, and had his way with it. He continued to grow, learned to cock-a-doodle-doo and returned to the hen house with the moody Old Ladies. Apparently, they told him to shut the hell up because he immediately ceased making any rooster-ly noises.

The Girls wouldn't look at, play with, snuggle near or eat with Skippy. No way were they going to consider having sex with this awkward young house rooster!

What's a boy to do? Well, that rock is sort of cute! And, it doesn't peck when he approaches. And since it balances on top of another rock, when Skippy climbs on, the motion of the ocean must be just right. Skippy throws all of his feathers forward and rocks the rock's world.

Since The Girls wouldn't play with him, I became Skippy's only playmate. He'd hang out with me in the garden, eating worms, making fertilizer and aerating the lawn. When I planted a lemon verbena in a pink tire planter, Skippy fell in love! Forget those cold, heartless rocks! Every few minutes, Skippy would mount the planter and show his appreciation. So much for using the lemon balm leaves in fruit salad or as an iced tea garnish.







When I would go inside to fix dinner, Skippy would come into the garage, climb up the steps and cock-a-doodle at the door until his playmate returned.

As things go in nature, spring came, the hens got broody, and Skippy was the only fellow in the yard. It made me nauseous to watch his clumsy attempts at mating. A time or two, he tap-danced his way up to one of The Girls only to be facing the wrong direction. When he finally got it right, The Girls could have pulled off Jane Fonda looking at her watch during the throes of passion. No bells or whistles for these Old Girls. He started hiding in the bushes near The Girls to cock-a-doodle. When they didn't peck his head, he came out in the open to crow.







Once his confidence built with The Girls, he began approaching me with his side stepping, get-ready-here-I-come dance. After a swift sandal to his right wing, I scooped him onto my hip. We sat on the porch and had our talk. I am not your bitch!

Now, I find it hard to bend over and pull weeds from my garden without looking over my shoulder for my frisky rooster. Should he grab me by the back of my neck and mount, we will be having chicken for dinner.

I think Tony said it best...There's a reason why The Girls tried to kill him when he was a baby. Good thing I love him!

3 comments:

Em said...

Oh, how sweet! Just kidding! I am now trying to rehome two cockerals... ideas? One is an EE, the other is a silkie/frizzle mix - but is smooth feathered.

Jenny S said...

HAHAHAHA!!! May there be cute little chickens in your future and you and Skippy be very happy together!

Stacey said...

Too funny! The plant escapade is especially hilarious:p