Spring Chickens

Just past Six Flags Amusement Park was the farm where the Englishman and I drove to pick up four beautiful Orpington chickens.  Black shiny feathers with a vivid beetle-green sheen in the sunlight were visible from the outside of the fence where I stood.  I was told that I needed to help catch my own chickens.  The jovial farmer grabbed a fishing net and strode to the shelter where the juvenile chickens were lounging in a pile.  I pointed to my first choice and the net swooshed through the air snagging my victim.  I was handed an upside-down chicken to hold by the legs.  Brutal.  Soon I had an inverted chicken in each hand and I told the farmer that I couldn't hold any further catches.  These were well fed and heavy birds.  He caught a third and took all three, leaving me with the net to catch one more.  After a couple of false swooshes, I had my fourth and left the fenced area.  The farmer seemed surprised as I emerged with my prize.

The Englishman secured the birds in the dog kennel and we headed back home.  I enjoyed the sounds of protest with each turn we took until we reached the interstate where the clucks stopped.  They were introduced to the old duck house area until we could reinforce the larger chicken compound.  They had plenty of room, food, water and a house for shelter.  That night, when we checked on them, they were sleeping in a pile on the ground.

The next morning it was raining.  I braved the downpour and discovered unhappy chickens with feathers plastered to their bodies.  It was clear that none had ventured into the house.  Sighing, I entered the pen and caught each chicken and pushed them into the house.  It seemed that they were intrigued by the concept of a roof over their heads.  I checked again that night and they were still in the house.  I was now worried that they wouldn't find their way back out again.  Thankfully, when I conducted a welfare check the next morning, all four were happily pecking about the now dry ground and seemed to understand the concept of an actual chicken house.  

It took a few weeks but they finally recognized me, at least as a source of food.  They no longer scattered when I approached and gently answered me when I called to them.  All four girls provided daily eggs in hues of beige, tan and brown and enjoyed treats of frozen corn on the cob, berries and watermelon in the steamy heat of July.  They were no longer my Spring chickens.