Thursday, October 8, 2009

Not Traumatized But A Little Heartbroken (Or...Things Are Quieter In Lloyd Tonight)


Well, Barb and Jim came out just now and got my roosters. It was hard. I tell you, it was hard. When you raise something up from the puffball stage to full-blown manly roosterness, it's just hard to see 'em go.
The things a mother goes through. I swear. I swanny.

I liked Barb and Jim. They seem like true animal lovers to me. They have all sorts of animals they love and all sorts of tales of steers whom they have known and loved and a wild hog that adopted their son and and a bull who will let them pet him. They swear they can't eat their own chickens, just like me.

Still. One never knows. They could be good-ol-country grifters, faking out the soft-of-heart to get their male chickens for their own devious purposes. Like I said- chicken and dumplings or maybe they sell them to Santeria Priestess for sacrificial ceremonies. Priestesses have to get those chickens somewhere.

But somehow, I didn't feel that vibe coming off of Barb and Jim.
They admired the coop and the hen house and my birds and Jim said, "You have five roosters here," and I said, "Oh Lord, don't tell me that."
I have been trying like hell to convince myself that Elmira is not a boy but I haven't really been believing it myself. I haven't see her crow but I have seen the way her tail-feathers are growing, straight up (see picture above) and out and Jim made no bones about it. "Yep, that's a rooster."

Well shit.

I don't know if you remember the story of Elmira but if you don't, here it is.
I knew I couldn't give away Elmira without consulting Mr. Moon so I called him and gave him the bad news.
"I can't give away Elmira," he said just like I knew he'd say. "That's my chicken."
"Well what should we do?" I asked. I was planning on keeping Sam, the main rooster and Henry, the second in command.
"Give 'em Henry," Mr. Moon said.
"Henry? Give them Henry?" I love Henry. He's red and he's been so manly right from the beginning, so studly and crowy and showy and friendly.
"Why is okay to give them my chicken but not yours?" Mr. Moon asked, quite reasonably.

Let me just say that Mr. Moon has had a very, very hard and discouraging day. I knew he had a point and I knew that I could not be the cause of the straw that broke that dear man's back and so I said, "Okay. They can have Henry."

I went back outside and told Barb and Jim that they were not only getting Helen and Lucille, but Henry as well. That was fine with them.
I asked Jim if he could catch my birds because I just didn't have the heart and he said he would. But then I had a change of heart. It would be less cruel and disturbing to the whole flock, not to mention Henry, Helen and Lucille, if I caught them myself. I brought them some corn tortillas and got them all happy and munchy, eating out of my hands and then I caught my three roosters, easy as pie, and handed them over. Do I feel like a traitor?

Not really. They're going to go live with a bunch of beautiful ladies and their only job is going to be to impregnate them. Or, well, actually to fertilize their eggs.

Jim took the roosters from me and put them in the cage he'd brought and we stood around and told a few more animal stories and then they got in their truck and we all said, "Nice to meet you," and they thanked me and then Jim said, "Lord bless you," and I said, "Thank-you," and I meant it.

I went back out to the coop to visit with my eleven remaining chickens- nine hens and two roosters and it's so quiet in there. I suppose they're wondering what the hell just happened. Even Sam seems somewhat thoughtful although he could just be having a post-coital moment. I saw him get some off of Red while we were still loading the other roosters up.
But it's funny how much less space eleven chickens take up than fourteen, especially when three of those chickens were big old bustling roosters, full of vim and vigor and manjuice.

So. There you go.
Good-bye Helen and Lucille. And good-bye, Henry.
I'll miss you.
Have fun in your new home. Try not to hate me. Try to remember all the love and grapes and watermelon I fed you by hand.
By hand. I fed them by hand since they were babies. (Little tear slips down my cheek.)



Oh well.
And Elmira shall now be called Elmo, I suppose. Or Elton. Or Elvis.
Elvis?
Hmmmmm.....

Whole lotta shaking going be going on when he grows up. Unless Sam kills him first.

Stay tuned. The Chicken Story never ends.

17 comments:

  1. Oh, I can't believe you used that picture! Good move. It tugs at the heart strings. As if the rest didn't already.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Aw.
    I was holding my breath when you were calling your husband. You are a good woman. Shew, that was tough. But sounds like it's all good in the end.

    ReplyDelete
  3. that picture of honeyluna with the babes is DELICIOUS! soooo sweet, those chicks!

    ReplyDelete
  4. Oh! That's so sad. :(

    I was all into the story and then you stuck in that part about the far away look or something on the face of your chicken with the reasoning it could just be a "post coital moment" and I laughed out loud. Never a dull moment at the Moons'!

    It's going to be weird for awhile not having them, I am assuming, but maybe it'll be more peaceful?

    ReplyDelete
  5. Mwa- Well, I kept thinking about how small they once were, how tiny.

    Bethany- What could I do? Mr. Moon saved Elvira's life. That means a lot.


    Adrienne- I know. They're all so damn precious.

    Nicol- You can bet it's going to be more peaceful. And Sam and Elvis are going to have lots and lots of post-coital moments and believe me- the hens will feel less tormented. Life is hard, even in the most beautiful of chicken coops.

    ReplyDelete
  6. I really want to like them but something's not adding up for me.

    When we get eggs, they're about 1/2 male and 1/2 female. So many people want females for eggs, and you only need a ratio of one rooster to what - 6 hens? At max? And we city dwellers usually keep no roosters. So that's a whole lot of excess roosters. So why don't they have even the same amount of roosters than hens? Much less all the many excess roosters?

    I'm sure there's a simple explanation ... i'm just perseverating on it.

    ReplyDelete
  7. Nola- Shhhh....
    I'm trying not to think of these things myself.
    Besides- being a Santeria Rooster might not be so bad....

    ReplyDelete
  8. I know it was hard to do, but you managed to get through it. This might be a relief for the hens.

    I've been running around like Chicken Little getting ready for this cruise. I'll "see" you when I get back and enjoy catching up with your blog!

    ReplyDelete
  9. Sorry - thought you'd have good answers. ;)

    I would totally be a Santeria rooster, given the chance. Or a virgin sacrifice (oh ... decades too late for that one). Makes me think of Santeria priestesses I met when I snuck into Cuba.

    I don't think I lack the god gene like you do - I'm just not satisfied with our current possibilities. I think I might be a Druid. I think voodoo is interesting and this is the place to learn of it - but too much work, too much learning, too much ceremony.

    So, I don't lack the god gene entirely, but I lack the need for divinity, I guess.

    ReplyDelete
  10. Geez--I'm sad, and I don't even know these chickens! It must be PMS.

    I'm sure Henry was a helluva chicken, but you just couldn't give away Elmira. Nope.

    ReplyDelete
  11. I think you need to write some sort of chicken book.

    ReplyDelete
  12. "Even Sam seems somewhat thoughtful although he could just be having a post-coital moment". I don't know why, but that made me cackle out loud! And then when I actually pictured it in my mind, because, well, how could you not? I cracked up more!

    You so did the right thing. Feathery things have short memory spans... and everyone knows it's bad luck to eat a rooster. So, you're covered. Good work. The bad news is that our hearts don't discriminate as much as our minds. Love is love, and loss stings.

    Have a safe trip tomorrow.
    xoxo pf

    ReplyDelete
  13. PPS

    Elvis. Definitely, Elvis.

    No question.

    ReplyDelete
  14. Aw, poor mama. But I vote for Elvis.

    ReplyDelete
  15. I don't blame Mr. Moon. Elmira was saved by his grace. He is a good sweet soul.

    And you are a good wife and a good mom and a good grandmother and a good friend and a good chicken mama, too.

    Love,

    SB

    ReplyDelete
  16. Now my heart is hurting. Ack, Ms. Moon. I could never be a farmer. This proves it once and for all.

    ReplyDelete
  17. Sometimes I tune in to your posts so I can feel like a had a vacation in another time and place. Bless you!

    ReplyDelete

Tell me, sweeties. Tell me what you think.