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About Just out. (Portland, OR) 1983-2013 | View Entire Issue (March 18, 2011)
-HL?« «voices* MARCH 18. 2011 W W W .JU STO U T.CO M Fish Without a Bicycle? Years ago we hatched our first hatch of hahy chicks. Eight grew into awkward androgynous adolescents. Portland ordinances allow keep ing three chickens on city lots and we planned to take the extras to country friends. Before we could, our three-legged black lab assassi nated five in a mad early morning massacre before a six-foot-high, sheet metal-reinforced fence around the run was completed. We were left with what appeared to be two hens and a rooster. Rooster Boy puffed himself up and strutted around the yard. Xena the Warrior Chicken survived not only the attack by Molly hut also a rescue attempt by our hundred pound pitbull mix who grabbed her ** out o f the bushes, carried her to me and dropped her at my feet. Our third survivor was a beautiful black-and-white hen whose ten dency to run about screeching in hysterical dismay earned her the name Henny Penny. Xena was first to climb into the nesting box. After that we received the gift o f one beautiful egg every day. We waited—and waited for . Henny Penny to begin laying. One morning before sunup, I was awakened by a strangulat ed cry from the chicken coop. Terrified a predator had somehow gained access to the coop, 1 jumped out o f bed and tore outside in my PJs. As I stared through the coop’s screen window, I was met by a startling sight: Henny BY M A R Y M A N D E V IL LE , DC I w a s m et by a startling sight: H en n y Over time our old lab passed away. Our pit bulls lived peacefully with poultry so we opened up the chicken run, allowing our hens access to the entire backyard. The ladies appeared to enjoy free-ranging around the property; they pecked and scratched, munched grass and hugs, and scooped out areas under the trees for dust baths. Still, they seemed unsettled. They started hiding their eggs around the yard and abandoned their coop, taking to trees or shrubs at night, becom ing fodder for raccoons. We tried chasing and bribing them to go into the coop, but they were having none of it. Perhaps they sought true freedom (like Patrick Henry— “Give me liberty or give me death”), or maybe they really did need a rooster to, well, get them to roost. When commercial eggs were recalled last year due to contamination, our supply o f safe fresh eggs remained robust. Still, I wish we could complete our flock with the addition of one (well-mannered) rooster. Together with the hens they would create a sustainable, self- renewing flock. Compared with questionable industrially produced food, and economic challenge, a rustic country wake-up call seems a fine trade-off for a steady supply o f super lo cal, healthy food. I just want happy hens, tasty eggs and to hear the pastoral call o f a rooster the hour be fore dawn. Do I ask too much? JÜÎ Floyd and Xena managed to make babies and become doting parents. Without being over P enny p erch ed on a ro o s t exte n d in g bearing or aggressive Floyd protected his flock, her neck, s creech in g o u t a s tra n g e often perched on a fence watching the neighbor hood for predators. He loudly announced the but u n m is ta k a b le cry. I s tared in approach of dogs, sending the hens racing for surprise at the bird w e a s s u m e d w as cover. At dusk, Floyd would cluck and crow, call ing the girls home to roost, as his title implied. a sensitive and striking hen. Inevitably, a developer snapped up the vacant Penny perched on a roost extending her neck, lot behind our chicken coop and slapped up a screeching out a strange but unmistakable cry. new house. We were quickly served with a no I stared in surprise at the bird we assumed was tice: Lose the rooster or face stiff fines. We’d come to cherish our gentle Pretty Boy and were a sensitive and striking hen. Henny Penny was renamed Pretty Boy Floyd, sad to see him go. The hens seemed fine without a boy-chicken and though his development had been delayed, his comb now grew large and his tail feathers around; they laid eggs regularly and didn’t seem arched with flamboyant drama. Lending new worse for wear— fish without bicycles, as it were. understanding to the term “cocky,” Rooster Boy Then one hen, Hazel, became broody, resolutely picked on Pretty Boy without mercy, pecking sitting on a dutch of infertile eggs. After an en and clawing ‘til poor Floyd was bloody. Rooster tire month, we decided to purchase chicks from Boy pecked us, too, and was generally unpleas the feed store. We shooed the wannabe mom ant, so we sent him and his excess testosterone out of her nest and traded smelly eggs for fluffy to live with rural friends. Once Rooster Boy left, little chicks. When Hazel peeked into the nest- Floyd found his true voice and we woke to his box her beady chicken eyes nearly popped out M ary M andf . villf . is w orking on a book about charming call every morning before the first of her head. In minutes she had taken the baby her chicken-m urdering dog. She practices an im al light cut across the sky. chicks under her wings— literally, of course. chiropractic. You can fin d her a t animotionchiro.com. " T h e e n s e m b l e is t h e "S w eet H o n ey in t h e R o c k ’ s G O L D S T A N D A R D ... T h eir v o ices are all SONGS LEAD US TO THE FA BU LO U S W ELL O F TR U TH unite to create a sound THAT NOURISHES THE WILL SO PURE, SMOOTH AND HOMOGENOUS THAT IT GOES NOT SEEM HUMANLY POSSIBLE." COURAGE STA N D ST R O N G . S he is the keeper of the fame .” - H arry B elafonte and to and they - F ort W orth S tar T elegram R()(’K HAS JUST EARNED ANOTHER (jRAMM Y CD EXPERIENCE... 101. 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