Dearest Daughters,
This morning, I went outside to check on the chickens. I really can't say that I was doing this "as usual." Our chicken maintenance schedule is a little lax.
I go out to get eggs every day, but never at a consistent time. When I do, the chickens might get fresh food, or water, sometimes both. Depends on how many children were left inside playing with matches.
When I went out this morning to throw them some kitchen scraps, la di da di da, I reached to open up the human-sized door to their run. And at my ankles OUTSIDE OF THE RUN was my poor little Chicken Katsu. She rushed that door like a Tweener at the Walmarts Justin Bieber perfume display on Black Friday.
But, Gold Rush? My dear sweet Gold Rush?
She escaped and it was all my fault for not making sure the door to the run was latched. Or for being lazy and not shutting my girls into the coop every night like I should. Or for not checking on them more than once a day.
"Gold Rush!" I yelled into the cold early morning air.
Last night was our first frost. I pictured her frozen corpse amongst our backyard weeds.
And then worse. Her body torn apart, feathers everywhere, death by raccoon.
Or better? She flew off into the night. Liberated. And is living the life she was meant to live somewhere between here and Lake Chabot.
Or worse? She somehow got over our fence and onto the highway. Lived her last moments, terrified by the blinding lights of oncoming traffic.
"GOLD RUSH!" I ran frantically to all corners of our yard, yelling, as if chickens responded to their own names, tears streaming down my face.
I found her in the gap between our shed and the neighbor's fence.
Alive.
If a chicken ever looked sad and afraid, it was Gold Rush. She had nested in a pile of plastic sheeting that had long been discarded and was caught on the fence. Having no place to lay it but her makeshift nest, a broken egg sat at her feet.
I tried to encourage her to come to me, but she just sat, looking cold and damp, staring at me, like: lady, you left me out here, so you best come get me.
So, I did. And carried her back to the safety of her flock.
(I don't know where Katsu slept last night. I like to think it was beside her stranded sister.)
I felt a wave of relief.
And of guilt. I wanted to make it up to them with extra kitchen scraps for the trauma I caused. A bigger coop. A space heater. A hot tub.
But, com'n that's just silly talk. They're only chickens.
So I started thinking about all the ways I'm likely to traumatize my human children. In real life. Not backyard farm life.
What's the human equivalent of kitchen scraps? Because I better start collecting them.
Love,
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