I wore appropriate shoes to pick up my Americauna chickens
that were advertised on Craigslist. Sensible
ones. Ones that coordinated well with the bedazzled back pockets of my jeans. A
long time ago, I realized that I could drive for hours in Georgia and still be
in the same state. Such was the case on
the beautiful Saturday morning when we left our driveway at dawn to navigate
the back roads to Fayetteville, Georgia.
The Englishman had shoved a large plastic dog carrier into the back seat
of my Honda and I fretted that it might be too small for the six adult hens. The MapQuest app on my phone wound us through
roads unknown and two hours later we had reached our destination at the end of
a forgotten country road.
The first thing I noticed were the goats roaming the
property. “Maybe she will let you pet
one of the goats,” the Englishman suggested as he peered through the herd of
bearded beasts, searching for the owner.
Janet, the chicken/duck/bearded goat lady waved us over to the
chain-link compound. As we made our way
toward her, the goats followed. They
seemed friendly. One bit me in the
butt. I turned around and swatted it
away. The goat had creepy ice blue eyes
and human-looking teeth. I tried walking
away. It nipped me again. Same place.
I picked up the pace and so did my new companion who was completely
mesmerized with my sparkly, bedazzled back pockets. Nip, nip, nip. I escaped into the chicken only section of the
compound.
Janet greeted us and then pointed out the six chickens that
we were buying. They were hanging out in
the chicken yard with twenty other chickens and we would have to catch them. First Janet lured as many “not-for-sale
“chickens as possible into her yard. One
of our chickens escaped with the flock.
We concentrated on tossing the remaining five into the dog crate. The Englishman confessed that chickens scared
him ever since he was a young lad back in England and he was put in charge of
collecting the eggs. Apparently the
chickens pecked him with their tiny beaks.
Wah, wah, wah. All five were
secured in the crate with no help from him.
We scanned the yard for the runaway chicken. She was solid white so it didn’t seem like it
would be too hard to spot. Janet rang a
bell and all the other chickens and goats came running with the exception of
one. Fifteen minutes later, the
Englishman found chicken number six hiding in the duck house. He carried her in his hands, arms outstretched
as if he was holding a rattlesnake. I
cursed myself for leaving my phone in the car.
I really wanted to take a picture.
Transaction completed, squawking birds in the backseat and
the GPS leading us home on completely different roads than before, I made
myself useful by reminding the Englishman that we had chickens in the backseat
and he needed to take it easy on the curves.
There were a lot of curves. The
chickens rode well in the car until there was a curve. They flapped their wings and screeched in protest
with each curve. Feathers were flying
about the car and unpleasant smells wafted toward the front. Windows down, sunroof open and avoiding the
roads less travelled, we finally made it home.
I introduced the chickens to Cluckingham Palace, gave them fresh food
and water and clapped my hands in delight as they scratched the ground with
their feet. The Englishman and I left to
run some errands. When we returned, it
was almost dark. We grabbed flashlights
and hiked through our overgrown grass to Cluckingham Palace. It
was empty. The chicken yard was
empty. We searched frantically for the
chickens. Three were balanced on the top
bar of the trellis and three were in a cedar tree. Chickens can fly, I realized. We also realized that chickens are very
docile when they are asleep. We
carefully plucked each chicken from their perches and placed them inside the chicken
house. They never woke up. No wonder foxes can eat them. The Englishman and I retreated to our house
and made a list of everything we needed to do the next day to secure the
chicken area. It would be another early
morning because chickens can fly.
