Chickens in the House

I’m remembering January 2018. I had broken my arm that Thanksgiving. My mother, still alive if with Parkinson's, was visiting. It was a New Year and I got up to write, to draw in the dark of that day’s dawning. I built up the fire in the wood stove because the temperature outside was in the negative numbers. And the chickens at the time were inside the house, the Greenhouse.

Yes, inside.

Schtude, our then Rooster, started crowing about 4 AM. At 6:35 AM, the house fire alarms went off. Carl and I looked about, but could find no reason or source for such a to-do. Out of an abundance of caution, we called 911. To the my mother’s on-coming aide’s chagrin, no one was allowed to make an espresso drink; shocking news at 6:55 AM.

Five SUVs and a fire engine made it up our driveway for a bracing Happy New Year good morning search of the house. Apparently I had overstuffed the wood stove and the creosote was burning off. That was a good thing. And don’t forget the chickens in the house. Schtude crowed throughout, leaving our reputation as crazy city dwellers—their chickens live in the house!—confirmed.

At which point, it was time to get the chickens out before the greenhouse got too warm. But the greenhouse door was frozen shut so we had to take the chickens, one by one, out through the house to the coop. First Swallow. Then the Suffragettes, Susan B, and Cady. Schtude. Ping. Carl was assisting by now. Chickadee. CooLots. Apricot. Brownie and Squeaky were the last two.

I headed out of the greenhouse into the living room with Brownie, who is, by the way, the only one who seems more content inside than out, and Carl was in the greenhouse chasing Squeaky. An uh-oh and crash. A curse. Squeaky was free and squawking in the greenhouse. Carl lunged. She arrived into the living room. I stopped to assess the situation. Carl got onto his hands and knees to follow Squeaky under the dining room table. She darted beneath, betwixt and between the dining room chairs. I told Carl to hold on as I struggled to get my cell phone’s video camera up without losing hold of Brownie all with my broken arm casted; I ever have my priorities straight.

Finally, I suggested to Carl that he take Brownie as I might be a bit more able, even one-armed, to chase the chicken. He stood up. He stared at me. Made no comment as he took Brownie and marched out of the house. I chased the chicken from the dining room into the kitchen where she skidded and shat, and jumped into my arms, feathers flying.

As I passed Carl coming back in, I warned him of the liquid bomb on the floor.

Ah, the good old days.

You can read about them here in my book.