Chickens are not pets

Growing up, my family did a lot of things that were outside the norm; which at the time, made my teenage quest of conformity a bit of a challenge. Now, however, these things lend themselves to some amazing stories that are often retold when we all need a laugh.

From as long as I can remember in my childhood, my mother raised chickens. Now, these were not your typical 'lay eggs and strut around the barnyard' chickens. No, these chickens existed for one reason, and one reason only. Delicious chicken dinners. You see, afraid of the ever growing trend of chicken injected with steroids and who knows what else, my mother decided to take our diets into her own hands and raise our poultry herself.

Raising your own chickens is not as difficult as some may think. They start out relatively cute, what with their soft yellow down feathers that immediately recall thoughts of easter peeps. I used to sit beside the plastic kiddie pool that we kept them in and laugh and coo over how cute they were. I'd give them names and make big plans for the fun we were going to have now that I had new 'pets'. That dream was crushed very very fast. Soon these little tufted birds undergo a change so disgusting that I was immediately turned off birds for life (no joke, birds are my least favorite creature ever!). Molting. That cute yellow fluff disappears and gives way to full grown feathers, which grow in slowly and sparsely, making the adolescent chickens look like plucked Cornish Game Hens that have been left out to thaw and then spackeled with feathers like a kindergarten art project gone wrong.

If you can stick with the chickens through the molting process, you will find that they grow to be relatively normal looking (ie, adult chickens). Then, all these animals do is eat, drink, sleep and shit. The shit was everywhere. It would literally coat the bottom of the chicken coop along with every surface surrounding it. A change of clothes and pair of old shoes was necessary just to set foot in the coop to feed and water them. It was at this point where I would mysteriously disappear every time it was time for the feeding, and conveniently pop up again when the chore was completed (usually by my mother). It was at this point where I realized I hated everything about the damn chickens and I wished my mother could just buy the delicious steroid chicken like everyone else's mom.

One year we not only raised the usual 50 chickens like we had in years prior, but my mother raised two turkeys as well. Turkeys are bigger and more stupid than chickens, if that's even possible. I hated them with a passion that still aches in my gut to this day. They also take a few weeks longer to mature (ie, fatten up) before they are ready to meet their maker.

Now, every Fall my mother takes off for a few weeks and goes deer hunting (which is another story entirely). Usually, she would take the chickens in to market and return with them in convenient packages to throw in the freezer. This year however, the turkeys were still around when it came time for her to leave, which meant that my father and I would have to take them in ourselves.

My father, who I consider a saint for even putting up with mother's chicken antics year after year, is not a man whom I would consider comfortable dealing with farm animals. This became extremely apparent when we realized we would need to transport two 40 pound turkeys in the back of his Ford Probe. How in the world were we going to do that and still keep his car, and our sanity, in tact? My mom gave us the advice to slip dark socks over the heads of the turkeys to sedate them, similar to what they do with ostriches. OK. Socks over their heads. Can't be that hard. Cut to the next half hour where my father and I desperately chased two full grown birds around our yard trying to slip green army socks over their heads. I'm sure the turkeys thought this hilarious as they waited for us to get close enough where we thought we finally had them, and then darted out of our way as we were left lunging, sock in hand, to where the bird once stood. At least they would find this hilarious if they had half a brain in their head, which they didn't, and why I find that situation even more insulting.

Finally, we managed to corner them and get the socks in place. Then we waited, figuring it may take some time for the chickens to become sedated. What a sight it must have been to see two turkeys strutting around our backyard with green socks over their heads, and my father and I watching with anticipation. When we finally decided it had been long enough and that the turkeys were decently calm, we loaded them into the Probe in Rubbermaid bins. Two turkeys safely in tow, we departed for the hour+ drive to market.

All was well until I looked back and realized that the turkeys were perched on the sides of the bins. How this must have looked to the other cars on the freeway, I can only imagine. One tiny car, two giant birds with green socks on their heads, bobbing up and down to the rhythm of the road. Now, I'm sure the birds would have been perfectly fine if we had just left them alone to perch and bob the rest of the way, but no, dad insisted that I "get back there and put them back in the bins". It was at this point when all hell broke loose. The minute I touched one of them, they both went into a frenzy. Wings flapping, feathers flying, heads bobbing- utter chaos- all the while my dad is trying to control the car, but frantically turning around trying to see what is happening and to control the situation. This may be a good time to remind you that we were in a Ford Probe. What car makers like to call a 'sport compact' ie, you have no room to move, let alone deal with turkey's flapping their wings and trying to escape from their Rubbermaid confinements.

We finally arrived at our destination, haggard and frustrated, but for the most part, unscathed. The turkeys wouldn't be so lucky that day, and looking back on that day, I can't blame them for trying to go out with a bang.

Upon her return, the whole ordeal was recounted to my mother with much bravado and gusto. My father swore never to take part in the transport of poultry again, and as my memory serves me, that was the last time we ever raised turkeys.