We have a little flock of birds on our small farm. We've had them since our first spring there, although there's only one chicken left from the original group. The personalities and names have changed throughout the years, but the numbers stayed fairly static.
The first batch of chickens and ducks came through the mail. We had a message from the Kingsley post office that just said, "Chicks are here." You could hear all sorts of animal noises in the background.
We brought them home and set them up with a warming light and baby food and immediately fell in love with all 12 of them.
A few days later, the post office employee called again. "Ducks are here."
The dozen ducklings were just as cute as the chicks, but much goofier. The chicks were industrious, even at that early age, and not prone to silliness. The ducklings tripped over each other, swam in their drinking water and quacked nonstop.
A friend who found out we had acquired birds for our farm scoffed at the notion we might eat them someday. "You're going to end up with a bunch of geriatric pets," he said. He was right.
Before the first week was over, we knew we'd never butcher any of those birds. They all had names, we knew their favorite foods, we played with them and carried them around.
But many have died. Death is a frequent enough visitor to our farm that I'm nervous every morning and evening when I go out to the barn.
Our dog killed a duckling the second day we had them. He just wanted to play with it, but the result was tragic.
It turns out chickens can just up and die with no sign of illness or distress. Their little hearts explode or something.
Birds of prey often swoop in and kill, quickly and efficiently, then eat only the brains (high protein) and leave the rest of the carcass for us to take care of.
Then there was the Tuesday Night Massacre when a neighbor's dog came over and killed all but two birds. The surviving chicken, Shadow, brilliantly went up into the rafters of the barn. We have no idea how Spot the duck survived. He can barely find his way out of the barn each morning, so we're pretty sure he was just lucky, not intelligent.
The flock is back up to five ducks and 10 chickens. Seven of the chickens are identical and referred to collectively as "the Hermiones" but nonetheless loved. The rest of the birds have names and personalities and favorite colors. This summer we've gotten to know their musical tastes as well, because we set up outdoor speakers. (They're not particularly fond of Coldplay's "Death And All His Friends" for some reason.)
I have a ratty chair out in the barnyard where I sit and chat in Spanish with the birds. My Spanish isn't very good, so we end up discussing the weather a lot, but it helps me keep in practice.
I cherish each bit of time with them because, on a farm, you never know if it's going to be the last.
Jodee Taylor can be reached at jtaylor@record-eagle.com.
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