Sometimes when sitting down to write this column it feels like I’m doomed to lay an egg. I mean, deadline’s approaching and the first batch of words spun into a collection of misthought was discarded (rightfully so, you should thank me!). Now I’m blank. I’m “laying an egg,” so to speak… you know what I mean.
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I wonder, when did we start blaming the chicken?
Just yesterday we confronted a bona fide, egg-laying member of the “Production Red” hen sorority. We were walking the dog and stopped at a friend’s home to let the little neighbor boy grab hold of the dog’s tail. Then an old hen strutted out … and, no, I don’t mean my friend’s wife. It was a real, feathered fowl.
Normally, you might question the mentality of a chicken on parade in front of a rather large, very interested dog. But maybe the chicken figured out our dog was on a leash.
This is remarkable when you consider the braincase of your average barnyard chicken, wedged between some feathers and those expressionless eyes, is about the size of a pea. Maybe that’s where we get “pea-brained,” I dunno. But the old hen struttin’ her stuff so incited the dog as to nearly tug my arm off. I stood wondering which was actually the dumb animal, a question which, by the way, includes me.
Hens are smarter than roosters. When daylight comes enough to make out the outline of the barn, a rooster starts telling the world how wonderful he is. Never mind how the announcement can attract all kinds of response, including those from coyotes and chicken hawks. Roosters will chance anything for a little attention.
Meanwhile, fine feathered gals still snuggle in the henhouse. I know this because I’m the one sitting here behind the keyboard at 4 in the morning, wide awake due to the deadline looming ahead. I’m waiting for the first rays of the day announced by my rooster brethren, if not by a cock crowing then by a diesel pickup noisily clamoring towards another day of work.
She’s upstairs still sensibly asleep, like any normal person. Old hens are smart like that.
A rooster will choose to have a couple cups of coffee while relaxing after supper, perhaps even a cup right before bedtime. This almost guarantees a midnight visit to the bathroom — which is fine, as long as you don’t turn on the light. There’s risk in the artificial illumination at that time of the night. Old hens know the difference between a light bulb and morning’s first sunlight … and they’ll let you know it.
I’ve learned that if a guy has several cups of coffee before bedtime, the result the next morning is a bedraggled, exhausted, confused rooster who is mad enough to want to whip the biggest dog on a chain in the neighborhood. Still, roosters who like coffee say it’s worth it. Hens don’t argue. They just make sure nobody bothers the light switch as this nightly ritual plays out.
There’s truth in the term “hen pecked.” Roosters kid each other about it but only do so whenever the hens aren’t around. Chalk up another one for the hens.
Truth be told, old roosters feel sorry for our hens. Hens spend a lifetime making the best nest they possibly can only to see it empty whenever the little chicks aren’t back home. An old hen is never really happy unless her brood is safely tucked under her wings, especially at Thanksgiving and Christmas … and on birthdays and Sundays and every evening, if not more frequently. You see, hens know all about eggs and never quit worrying about the good ones and bad ones. Roosters tend to crow either way.
All I really know is how playing chicken never worked for me. The spurs my dad occasionally applied to me were convincing. He said drag racing and other barnyard antics were not going to be in my best interests. I learned to believe him. I learned this at an early age.
The first (and last) time I lied to dad was over chickens. It was a simple matter. My daily chore was to gather the eggs. I wanted to go to town with dad, which is about the best thing a guy at that age could ever do. He asked if I’d done my chores. I said yes when I should have said no. Like I said, playing chicken never worked for me. How ’bout you?
All this has me thinking back again to that red hen in my friend’s yard, which started all this rambling. Whether by oblivious ignorance or courageous pluck, she stood her ground in front of unanticipated peril. Perhaps her feminine assertiveness was egged on by the rather bleak, wintry landscape. We’ve had extremely warm temperatures lately but it’s still too early for much new green growth. And yet, the little red hen was on patrol, striding across the yard, trying to scratch out a living despite everything.
Life isn’t easy. There aren’t a lot of perks to being a chicken. The trick is to just keep peckin’ away at whatever problems you have … and to be thankful for what you’ve got. And remember, despite all the turmoil that discourages and tempts us, He’s with us always. The sky isn’t really falling.