With apologies to Poe

Inspired by actual events.

Once upon a summer swelter, while I weltered in my shelter,
Reading backlogged emails, each more urgent than the one before,
As I toiled, resisting napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my kitchen door.
"'Tis the FedEx guy," I muttered, "tapping at my kitchen door -
Only this, and nothing more."

The timing was inopportune, for in the midday heat of June
I hide indoors awaiting monsoon storms their cooling rains to pour.
Eagerly I wait and wonder, when will storm clouds roil and thunder,
Lightning tear the sky asunder, bringing coolness I long for,
Bringing long-awaited coolness that we desert rats adore,
And our peace of mind restore?

But the raps were not repeated, so I chose to remain seated
Avoiding summer air so heated by not going to the door,
There were emails to be sending, other business issues pending,
I should really not be spending time on phantoms at the door
Wasting Facebook time on chasing phantoms tapping at my door,
Though my butt grew numb and sore.

Back to my computer turning, my paycheck to resume earning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, lightly on the kitchen door.
"Surely," said I, "that is someone who has braved the hellish noon sun
A delivery errand to run, and this knock I can't ignore,
A package or a letter, too important for me to ignore."
I rose, and strode toward the door.

Turning now the shining brass knob I was greeted by a small mob
Of hot chickens gathered on the porch before the kitchen door:
Joni blond and partridge Pearlie, brainy Grace and Bonnie burly,
Thinking they'd be let in, surely, if their Mom they did implore,
They gazed at me so pitifully, a ploy they hoped I would fall for.
And then they walked right in the door.

Through the kitchen four spoiled hens stroll, past the fridge and to the dog's bowl,
Checking here and there for crumbs and morsels dropped upon the floor,
No rustic roost was ever finer than a La-Z-Boy designer
Plush and cushiony recliner Dad and Mom worked hard to score,
Soft recliners far more comfortable than carpet or bare floor,
Soon festooned with chickens four.

"Out!" I cried, "Before the pooping starts and I'm reduced to scooping
Guano from the furniture, the carpet and the hardwood floor!
You're common barnyard fowl" I chided, "and you're tragically misguided
If you think you'll be abided as you foul my hardwood floor,
Foul my chairs, my tufted carpets and the oak upon my floor."
Quoth the chickens, Brahk-ahk borrr?

Then these winsome fowl beguiling my stern visage into smiling
By the charm and innocence of the countenance they wore,
"Though you'll no doubt make some crappies and you have no chicken nappies,
I do love to see you happy, though your messes I abhor.
I will let you roam a while until you start to soil the floor."
Then Joni pooped upon the floor.

"Out!" I cried, my patience snapping, "Why such frequent need for crapping?
Oaks long dead don't need your guano - take your butts back out the door!
You're not princesses," I berated, "so you shouldn't look deflated
When you find you're reinstated in your coop behind your door,
Safe from my wrath and coyotes, locked behind a sturdy door.
Quoth the chickens, Brahk-ahk borrr?

As I chased them toward the doorway, they began to act like wild prey,
Dodging, ducking hands, the chickens managed to evade me more
'Round the living room we gyred until I became so tired
And so hot I near expired and flopped down upon the floor,
So tired and hot that I forgot what I was chasing chickens for.
They clucked in triumph, Brahk-ahk borrr!

And the chickens, never flitting, still are sitting, still are sitting
On the arms and backs of chairs I tried to keep them off before,
And their eyes are smug and gleaming as they ponder how their scheming
Did prevail against my screaming as I chased them 'round the floor.
And these fowl from off my chairs and out my house and out my door
Shall be evicted... nevermore.

© 2012 Sheri L. Williamson. All Rights Reserved.

A close call

Pearl safely back in the run.

Sibella and the dogs up the street had been barking off and on all morning. I figured one of the neighbors' dogs was running loose, but with Sibella on guard I decided to risk letting the chickens out for some free-range time.

They'd been out an hour or so when Sibella sounded the alarm again. When it escalated from a few concerned woofs to hysterical barking, I jumped up and ran to the door. Huddled together on the porch—outside the minimal safety of the fence—were the chickens, and loping casually up the driveway was a coyote.

Ordinarily a visit from a big predator would be cause for celebration, but the chickens have colored our attitudes toward them. We still love and respect coyotes, foxes, ringtails, hawks, owls, etc., but we're also well aware of the danger they pose to our girls. If ever a predator hurt or killed one, we'd have no one but ourselves to blame. That would be hard to live with.

I watched for a few seconds to see if the coyote would turn back toward the house, then opened the door to let the chickens inside and led Sibella into the bedroom (she's not bird-friendly). The girls spent an hour or so in the house, which they love, but could not be persuaded to go back outside, even for a delicious bowl of oatmeal garnished with shredded cheese. I finally had to carry them one by one back to the run.

I'm not sure the girls even saw the coyote. It's their habit to come stand by the kitchen door after they've been out a while, waiting for me to bring out their treats. When other things alarm them—big shadows overhead, quail flushing, etc.—they usually respond by going back into their enclosed run, hiding inside their coop, or taking refuge under the porch or the chairs on the patio. I'm also unsure whether the coyote would have been brazen enough to walk right up onto the porch with Sibella barking from inside, but they're awfully smart critters, and this one was fearless enough to be strolling around the neighborhood in broad daylight.

At any rate, Sibella is the hero of the day, the girls are confined to quarters until further notice, and I'm going to have a restless night dreading the coyote's return. —SW

   

Desert snow

We woke up this morning to this:


After one of the worst "monsoons" on record and a virtually rainless fall, we'll take our precipitation any way we can get it. Melting, it registered .35" - not too bad.

It's the chickens' first snow, so I let them out to scratch around in it.

While supervising their explorations, I noticed that the hummingbird feeder was caked with snow. The feeder went dry while we were away for a few days, and I hadn't seen or heard a hummer since we returned, but I dutifully minced through the slush and brushed the ports clear. I hadn't taken three steps back when a male Anna's appeared out of nowhere.

Within a half hour a female Anna's and a Violet-crowned also came to drink, so I guess they've forgiven us for neglecting them while we were away watching other hummingbirds.

The chickens are only allowed out when we're there to supervise. We love our chickens, but we also love our raptor neighbors and don't want to lead them into temptation. We haven't noticed regular visits from the Cooper's Hawk that used our water feature as her personal spa the last two winters, but the local Red-tail is a proven bird hunter. One morning as I stepped out to check on the chickens, a flutter caught my eye. There was the Red-tail atop a nearby utility pole. Hey, neighbor, I thought. Another flutter, and a double-take: the hawk wasn't alone.

He can have all the pigeons he wants, and I've never caught him eyeing the girls, but better safe than sorry.

 

Sleepy girls

The chicks are bringing out my dormant maternal instincts. While slaving over a hot computer, I felt a pang of guilt about leaving them in their tub so long. I scooped them out and carried them into the home office hoping they'd just fall asleep in my lap while I worked. They tried but had trouble getting comfortable (I'm just not fluffy enough). Spying an old knit cap stuffed into the bookshelf, I tucked them inside where they soon fell asleep. Gradually Pearl, Grace, and Bonnie got too warm and wormed their way out of the cap until they were piled on top, leaving Joni tucked inside with just her fuzzy blond head sticking out. They stayed that way for more than an hour, until after Tom returned home from work (and brought me the camera). —SW

Bucket o' chickens

So we've got chicks. Now comes the hard part: Getting a coop and run built before they outgrow the house. In the meantime, they're living in a cat-proof tub in the living room:


The chopsticks through the corners of the hardware cloth top lock it down so that our indoor-only kitteh Bart (whose middle name is Evil) doesn't decide to see if dey haz a flavur. So far, he hasn't shown as much interest in them as in the House Finch fledglings that have been hanging out around outside the living room window, but we don't want to take any chances.

For now, the chicklets seem pretty comfy. We're letting them out three or four times a day to bond and exercise. They're so much fun to watch, but they wear out pretty quickly at this age. Here's Joni having a loll while her sisters snuggle:

Tom is new to poultry, despite having been a foster dad to wild things ranging from quail to otters, but pet chickens were a big part of my childhood. There was Herman, who started out as a gaudily dyed Easter chick and grew up to be a ferocious White Leghorn rooster, Jicken (pronounced with a French "j"), a gorgeous Dominique rooster that my mom named for his floppy, beret-like raspberry comb, and Cluck, a very lucky White Leghorn battery hen who came to us in a large box labeled "YEAR'S SUPPLY OF EGGS." I used to love going to the Fort Worth Livestock Show during poultry week to soak up all the incredible diversity among chicken breeds, and we'd like to have some of that diversity in our little flock. Maybe we'll adopt a couple of tribble-like Silkies, a mop-topped Polish, a sleek, satiny Sumatra....

To keep this from morphing into a poultry blog, we'll keep the chicken posts to a minimum here (but hey—at least they're birds). Chickens are really hot right now, though, so we may start a new blog just for our close encounters of the gallinaceous kind.

26: The poultry anniversary

Tom and I just celebrated our 26th wedding anniversary. Our gift to each other was chickens, specifically four "Americana" or "Easter Egger" chicks less than 48 hours old. They're not a pure breed, but they should lay the famous blue-shelled eggs of their Araucana ancestors.

I picked them out at a local feed store with an eye toward eye candy. Clockwise from the left are Bonnie (red), Grace (black), Joni (blond) and Pearl (multicolor).

Extra credit if you figure out how we chose their names. As you can see, they're already bonding with Tom (though I think I heard Joni the prima donna cheep that he should use conditioner on his beard). --SW