Have you ever had a long talk with a chicken? A sit-down. Like you do with your kid. When you have something important to discuss. Like how they haven’t washed behind their ears in 5 years, or why they thought drinking chocolate milk on a white sofa was advisable.
That kind of talk. You pull in your chair nice and tight. You sit up straight. You have a look on your face that screams, “I just sat on a giant sandspur!” Serious. Perturbed. Authoritarian. “Here’s my message. You will get it.”
This is the talk I must have with my chickens, Ruby and Louise.
This is my life. I have hit rock bottom.
Why am I’m resorting to lectures with poultry? Oh, it’s simple. My freeloading fowl appear to have entered into retirement. Their laying days might just be behind them. They’ve been at it for a little over three years and the whole egg laying thing doesn’t “suit them” anymore.
They’ve hung up the coop.
Wait a minute. What am I talking about? They don’t have a coop. They live in a poultry paradise. A big, cozy hen house that occupies part of my shed. And a run. And perches and rocking chairs and good food and 24-hour concierge service with free valet parking and timeshare credits in South Beach.
The chickens have it better than I do. And the only thing — the ONLY thing — I ask of them is to produce nice, fresh, delicious eggs.
But no, they’ve unionized. They’ve gone on permanent strike. We knew it was coming — that’s the thing about laying hens. They only lay eggs for part of their lives. At some point they just stop and either become pets or hit the stew pot. I knew this, but I’m still not happy about it.
They’re chickens. Laying eggs is what they do. About the only thing they do. They’re horrible flyers. As hard as my daughter tries, they’re really lousy at jumping through hoops. They tear up the backyard searching for who knows what. What are they digging for? It’s dirt! There’s nothing down there.
“How do they intend to earn their keep?” I asked my wife and daughter. “At least on occasion the dog will bark for no apparent reason. I tell you, if someone is considering breaking into the house at that random moment, she might scare them away. But what about those two?”
“No, no,” my wife says. “It’s more than just eggs. They give us love and companionship and a good laugh.”
HA!
They snicker at me when I walk out to the backyard. Mocking birds. Three or four years of work and now they get to retire?
I don’t get a package like that. I’ll be lucky if I’m retired by 86. More than likely I’ll still be supporting my freeloading fowl. All so they can tear up my yard and plan their timeshare trips to South Beach.