The Clucking

We had seven of them. Two Rhodies, one Polish Cross (which came from a science experiment), an Araucana, two Bantams and a Plymouth. We had more than these seven over the course of 7 years, but somehow these seven are the ones I remember the most. They all had names and came from friends and neighbors. They ruled our daily schedule. Mornings would find me hauling ass out of bed to open up the coop and change their water and feed bowls. Rain or shine found them bossy, happy, and insistent with gentle clucks, scratching a destrucive path to hidden bugs throughout my garden. They loved hoovering next to me as I weeded, snagging worms and bugs before I even realized they were there. When the shovel came out, they tended to crowd around it like it was a god. Every evening, as the sun was setting, they would waddle and shake their way back into their coop, gently clucking on their roosting bars. Although they were fearless during the day, bullying my pooch and bossing me around, they were the most vulnerable at night. No matter what our plans were, we had to lock-up the coop to keep the racoons and foxes and god knows what else away. Our days, weekends and vacations were planned around our chickens.

In the spring they gifted us with an abundance of eggs…we’d often find at least 4 eggs tucked away in corners of their boxes. They loved treats like corncobs and grapes and would beg for more, bringing a smile with their crazy attitudes and antics. But over the course of time, between the natural order of nature and human error, one-by-one they left our backyard for greener pastures. They were some of the most wonderful gardening buddies I’ll ever have. Yes, their eggs were amazing but it’s their coos and clucks that I remember the most…particularly when I’m weeding.

It was a brief moment of farm life for our family, living in our suburban backyard less than a mile away from Washington,DC. Above is painting I created in honor of them…”Chicken Garden.”