I don't know what it is about a chicken running, but in my head it must always be accompanied by the theme music from The Benny Hill Show.
So, whenever I'm rounding up our three chickens in our suburban backyard, in an attempt to get them back in their pen, it has to be done with me humming a fair bit of Yatey Sax.
Chickens are just that ridiculous. And glorious.
I never wanted chickens. Mainly I was worried they would die. Attacked in the middle of the night by a fox. Or tortured to death by a plague of lice.
But when one of my brothers moved house, we inherited two lovely bantams. They were truly beautiful. And then they died. Well, were killed.
One got out of the pen and was quickly rounded up by my dog, an English springer spaniel, who pranced around with the chicken in its mouth like it was a pheasant on an 19th century English country estate. There wasn't a mark on the poor little thing. I think it died of fright. I buried it in the middle of the night when the kids were in bed.
And though the doomed chicken was the smaller of the pair, it was the leader. It would boss the other one around, who would trail faithfully behind, never daring to do anything on its own. So when the bossy one was gone, the other one was hapless. One night after work, I found it dead on the grass in the backyard. Again not a mark on it. Either it got out and met the same fate as the other one. Or else died of a broken heart. I distracted the kids and put that one in the garbage bin. I just couldn't be bothered giving it the same funeral honours.
Needless to say, getting more chickens was not high on my must-do list. But my brother got some more chickens, from the back of a truck somewhere in Dickson, turning up one evening with three ISA browns in a cardboard box. They were very ugly, skinny with necks that looked too long. Not anything like the pretty bantams whose feathers were ever so boho.
Could I love them? Especially when they stared at me with that slightly unhinged look in their eye? And thought my toes were grubs that needed to be eaten? My brother reinforced the coop so that it was Guantanamo Bay-secure. These chickens were not going anywhere.
Their coop is nice and big, with lots of area to walk around, but I have found one of the most pleasant things about having chickens is letting them roam through the garden, pecking at whatever they like, rustling in the foliage along the back fence, kicking up the dirt and luxuriating in all the space.
It just makes me feel good to see them wandering around (with the dog safely inside the house). I feel such a sense of wellbeing. It's less about trying to be Felicity Kendal on The Good Life but more just a feeling of being in the moment and enjoying it. And I'm not alone. There are multiple articles online about how keeping chickens is good for your psychological wellbeing. They reduce depression and anxiety. They have a calming effect. They help create routine.
My three hens are plumper now. They've grown into their necks. One lets me stroke her feathers. She likes to hang around near my feet while I put the washing out. I think she's still looking for my toes.
We got the chickens in winter so it was a while before they started laying eggs. And, oh, what a joy that is, to see a warm little egg nestled in the straw. Makes that $10 a week I pay for feed all worth it. LOL. (Reminds me of that book The $64 Tomato in which William Alexander wrote about the true cost of growing his own veggies.)
But the eggs are a bonus. It's really the chickens who have grown on me. They're here to stay.
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