Shelby’s weekly writing prompt!

What I Love About My Chickens

I'm afraid this essay mostly won't be very original, so I apologize right off the top. What I love about my chickens is partly what we all love about them. They're pretty. They're funny. They're personable. Chickenable? Is that a word? Yeah, it is now, I just made it up! They keep the nasty bug population down - think chiggers and ticks! That makes them useful, and that's completely aside from the obvious, the eggs and meat! (Shh, we don't talk about meat in front of them!) I like the sounds they make as they go about their day, talking to each other. I even have a baby monitor in the hen house so I can hear them when I'm here in the house.

So none of this is news to anyone reading this. Y'all are nodding your heads, maybe smiling a little in recognition and thinking how familiar this all sounds. Maybe some of you even have lap chickens or house chickens so you're more closely tied to your cluckers than I am to mine.

But here's the thing that really, REALLY gets me about my chickens. You see, I think sometimes we forget that they really are BIRDS. They are, essentially, wild animals. They're not like dogs or cats that have grown up underfoot for millenia and expect to be underfoot and in our beds, no. Mostly they live outdoors in the elements, with some modifications. They are more like cardinals and sparrows and bluejays than they are like puppies and kittens, and we forget that. We go outside in all weather and toss them a handful of scratch or lettuce and instead of running away from us in terror like an opossum, a fox or even a magpie would do, they come running TOWARD us to share in our bounty like good neighbors. They dine at our feet, trusting and unafraid. What a gift they give us in their trust! Deer won't cluster around us like this, in most cases. Raccoons won't, nor bobcats or even crows. But chickens ... chickens are the animals on the border between wild and domestic. I can't reach down and pick one up (maybe you can, lucky you!), but they are so close I ALMOST could. I have the ILLUSION that they are tame, but illusion is all it is. Because in reality, they are not. They keep their distance and cherish their autonomy. They remain, ultimately, wild. That closeness is, as I say, merely an illusion.

And that illusion is what I love most about them.
 
They are more like cardinals and sparrows and bluejays than they are like puppies and kittens, and we forget that.
I have the ILLUSION that they are tame, but illusion is all it is.

I've been thinking about these concepts more lately, so I was pleased to see you mention them! I'm still trying to reconcile what it means to have "pet" chickens.

Also, you have an easy breezy writing style that I really enjoy! Can almost hear you talking in my head. :D
 
I've been thinking about these concepts more lately, so I was pleased to see you mention them! I'm still trying to reconcile what it means to have "pet" chickens.

Also, you have an easy breezy writing style that I really enjoy! Can almost hear you talking in my head. :D
Thank you! I can write more formally if I need to, but I enjoy this denim and t-shirt by the fireside style too.
 
Thank you! I can write more formally if I need to, but I enjoy this denim and t-shirt by the fireside style too.
I get imposter syndrome if I try to write formally. Like, "You think you're an adult, huh?! Nice try, you big dweeb! Go back to your tee-hee ha-ha junk." Never ask me to write a eulogy! :oops:
 
I've been thinking about these concepts more lately, so I was pleased to see you mention them! I'm still trying to reconcile what it means to have "pet" chickens.

Also, you have an easy breezy writing style that I really enjoy! Can almost hear you talking in my head. :D
I don't think of my chickens as pets. But nor do I think of them as livestock. Someone has coined the term "petstock," but that's not accurate for me either. They're creatures on the border between wild and feral, somewhat fey, I guess, like fairies I can't quite catch, that yet depend on me to care for them.
 
I get imposter syndrome if I try to write formally. Like, "You think you're an adult, huh?! Nice try, you big dweeb! Go back to your tee-hee ha-ha junk." Never ask me to write a eulogy! :oops:
You can write my eulogy, if you promise to leave everyone in stitches and a few folks wishing they were wearing Depends! :lau I want no tears at my memorial!
 
The day I bought my first horse was not what I expected. To begin wth, my friend Artie* had already changed my mind about what kind of horse I was getting. I'd started out wanting a Quarter Horse and she'd convinced me an Arabian was the better choice, but that's another story. Now I was at her house, ready to choose my mount. She had two for sale and my mind was already made up.

Salila was purebred, elegant, a show horse, solid chestnut, no white, sweet and gentle. I could raise purebred babies out of her, what wasn't to like? But Artie didn't think she was the right horse for me. "You'll get bored with her," she said. "She won't challenge you."

"I don't need a challenge," I protested. "I'm a city girl. I barely know which end of a horse is forward! I just need a good, safe, easy horse. Just sell me Salila, I know she's the right horse for me."

"Tell you what," Artie offered. "Let's go for a ride. "You ride Crystal first and then if you still want Salila, I will sell her to you."

What could I say. "Fine," I grumbled. I looked at Crystal. A bay, dark brown with black mane and tail and a little white on one hind hoof, she lacked Salila's refinement. She was only 3/4 Arabian, actually half-Arab on paper. Her topline made me shake my head: from hip to tail her spine sloped alarmingly. Her withers were steep and one front hoof was flat in front, indicating she dragged that foot a bit. I sighed. Okay, let's get this over with, I thought. Artie helped me saddle and bridle her, then gave me a leg up to mount, and we were off.

I was not a total novice. In my not-so-distant younger days I'd rented horses in Boulder, Colorado every chancè I got but had ridden without training. Artie gave me a few tips as we rode that day in sunny northwestern New Mexico, tips geared mostly toward safety: heels down, shoulders back, seat tucked. It was a lovely day and I was enjoying myself, but I was still more passenger than rider.

"Let's try a trot," Artie suggested, and told me how to cue my horse into this bouncy gait and how best to ride it. Then it happened. Crystal tossed her head and the bridle flew off her head. Suddenly I had no control. I stared in horror as the headgear, complete with bit, dragged in the sand beside Crystal's hooves, as I gripped the useless reins in my hand. The horse was still trotting under me. I wanted to scream but I was afraid of spooking my horse into a dead gallop. Dry-mouthed, I called ahead to Artie. It took several tries before she heard me.

By this time I was gripping Crystal's mane as well as the reins and bouncing like a lunatic, fearful of falling off. Just as Artie turned around, a miracle occurred. Crystal realized somethng wasn't right and sensibly came to a dead halt. With gratitude and relief I climbed out of the saddle and slipped the bridle back over her head. Artie came back and helped make sure it was on tight enough. Crystal snuffled me reassuringly, as if to be sure I was okay. Before I re-mounted I looked at Artie and said, "I don't need to ride Salila. You were right. Crystal is the horse for me!"

ETA: *Name has been changed. Not the horses' names though.
 
The day I bought my first horse was not what I expected. To begin wth, my friend Artie* had already changed my mind about what kind of horse I was getting. I'd started out wanting a Quarter Horse and she'd convinced me an Arabian was the better choice, but that's another story. Now I was at her house, ready to choose my mount. She had two for sale and my mind was already made up.

Salila was purebred, elegant, a show horse, solid chestnut, no white, sweet and gentle. I could raise purebred babies out of her, what wasn't to like? But Artie didn't think she was the right horse for me. "You'll get bored with her," she said. "She won't challenge you."

"I don't need a challenge," I protested. "I'm a city girl. I barely know which end of a horse is forward! I just need a good, safe, easy horse. Just sell me Salila, I know she's the right horse for me."

"Tell you what," Artie offered. "Let's go for a ride. "You ride Crystal first and then if you still want Salila, I will sell her to you."

What could I say. "Fine," I grumbled. I looked at Crystal. A bay, dark brown with black mane and tail and a little white on one hind hoof, she lacked Salila's refinement. She was only 3/4 Arabian, actually half-Arab on paper. Her topline made me shake my head: from hip to tail her spine sloped alarmingly. Her withers were steep and one front hoof was flat in front, indicating she dragged that foot a bit. I sighed. Okay, let's get this over with, I thought. Artie helped me saddle and bridle her, then gave me a leg up to mount, and we were off.

I was not a total novice. In my not-so-distant younger days I'd rented horses in Boulder, Colorado every chancè I got but had ridden without training. Artie gave me a few tips as we rode that day in sunny northwestern New Mexico, tips geared mostly toward safety: heels down, shoulders back, seat tucked. It was a lovely day and I was enjoying myself, but I was still more passenger than rider.

"Let's try a trot," Artie suggested, and told me how to cue my horse into this bouncy gait and how best to ride it. Then it happened. Crystal tossed her head and the bridle flew off her head. Suddenly I had no control. I stared in horror as the headgear, complete with bit, dragged in the sand beside Crystal's hooves, as I gripped the useless reins in my hand. The horse was still trotting under me. I wanted to scream but I was afraid of spooking my horse into a dead gallop. Dry-mouthed, I called ahead to Artie. It took several tries before she heard me.

By this time I was gripping Crystal's mane as well as the reins and bouncing like a lunatic, fearful of falling off. Just as Artie turned around, a miracle occurred. Crystal realized somethng wasn't right and sensibly came to a dead halt. With gratitude and relief I climbed out of the saddle and slipped the bridle back over her head. Artie came back and helped make sure it was on tight enough. Crystal snuffled me reassuringly, as if to be sure I was okay. Before I re-mounted I looked at Artie and said, "I don't need to ride Salila. You were right. Crystal is the horse for me!"

ETA: *Name has been changed. Not the horses' names though.
Oh, that was a good read. I’ve ridden once, and it was not very pleasant, so you had my blood pressure up! :clap
 

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