Chick Addict

Hello. My name is Joy, and I am an addict. My drug of choice is chickens. Yes, I admit, chickens: Buff Orpingtons, Polish, Black Australorps, Ameraucanas. They race to greet me and beg for treats bounding out of the coop door in the morning. They lay six to nine multi-colored eggs each day and sing a thunderous song after each one.

            I truly am an addict. You see, I lied on Sunday about the reason to go to the feed store. I said I went to look at supplies, but it was really the chicks that drew me. They are so small, maybe my husband will not notice. I picked up a Cream Legbar, Olive Egger and a Colombian Wyandotte chick. Colombians are known for fine hens as well as cocaine.

            Mother Hen, pecking order, and chicken math are real. Last August we talked about having five to six hens as my husband and cigar smoking buddy built the coop and run. I came home with nine. We eliminated one when she crowed and came out as a he. We are not allowed roosters. Sadly, gender identity is crucial when it comes to the legal status of said addiction.

            Next, in my development as an addict was meat chickens. I estimated that we could eat three chickens each month, so we would get and process 36 Cornish Cross chickens. When purchasing my chicken crack, I became aware of a quantity discount. I ordered 51. My husband claimed I was spatially challenged when he logically inquired where would they go? He was totally in the right. But, I had already made the buy.

            What could I do? I had to start dealing. I went onto Facebook and roped in three other users for a total of 20 chicks and I tossed in a bonus chick to each user. One user backed out at the last minute, excusing her but wanting to make her life a living hell when I became aware of her purchasing other addictions like ducks and specialty hens.

            What does this have to do with my lifestyle and career? It’s about balance, a healthy lifestyle which involves what I eat, and self-care which involves watching them scratch and cluck and running towards me with utter abandon if I turn on my kitchen light.

            So, on Sunday I trafficked three chicks. I smuggled them into the garage. Stashed them with the meat chickens. Hoping they will survive the homeys and eventually produce more for me…those illustrious eggs.

            Can I find a career with an addiction like what I have with chickens? Would that be healthy?

            I awake each morning and stumble out to scatter feed on the ground for my girls. I embellish scrambled eggs for breakfast with herbs and cheese. I regularly peer out the window to see where they are free ranging in my backyard and I regularly find them pecking at my glass backdoor. I pet them in the coop at night, stroking each one briefly and reminding them of their egg commitment as I wish them sweet dreams.

            I check nest boxes for the gold- eggs at least two times each day. Since I am so addicted to my crack- chickens…mental health counseling might be a rehab retreat!

Brown Bird Singing, a poem

“Brown Bird Singing”

 (Inspired by a separation)

In the lone pine

sings the Cardinal

drop of blood

splashed on the

sky.

He is mine

cries the brown bird

clothed in ash

praying on the

path.

                        joy (2007)