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«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
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