Lulu, Daisy Mae, and Darth Vader

Cris, a friend of my just lost a pet chicken, Suzi ... the little hen that never was quite healthy and died before she was a year old.  Fortunately Cris has four others, all best buddies and a big joy in her life.  Not only do I get to enjoy the chickens on her blog ( http://anartistscountrylife.blogspot.com ), but I have even visited them.  

Right now I ache for Cris.  I also have been very attached to a pet chicken.  Actually I had a series of pet chickens when I was a little girl.  Cris’s loss has brought back fond memories of my pets.  

The first was a white leghorn, Lulu.  By the time I realized Lulu was a dashing rooster it was too late to change his name.  He didn’t mind.  He was very self assured.  Remember that Johnny Cash song where the guy is named “Sue?”  Well, the guy named Sue turned out just fine and so did my Lulu.  

I was too young to know the consequences of having just one chicken during a Wisconsin winter.  Poor Lulu froze the tips of his toes off.  Even that didn’t bother him.  He fluffed and strutted and crowed.  It was the crowing that ended my wonderful time with Lulu.  At home in rural Wisconsin the crowing was a joy to wake up to, but I was allowed to take Lulu when I went to visit my grandmother for the summer -- in a residential community outside Boston.  Crowing definitely was not on the agenda!  Poor Lulu was given to a chicken farm.  I had no choice.  I was just a little girl.  I can still see the farm.  Hundreds of white chickens pecking about and long low sheds for egg laying.  I had no choice in the decision but it seemed all right.  I wonder how he managed with all those ladies? 

Daisey Mae in Her Chicken House

Next spring I had another chick, this time a little red one, a New Hampshire Red.  Daisy Mae was a doll.  She soon grew into a handful of fat, egg-laying joy.  She rode the handle bars of my bicycle and laid her eggs in a box in our outhouse.  We tried other spots but she knew what she wanted.  I know she liked grabbing the tail of toilet paper that hung down and would run with it until the paper tore.  My father always sputtered, reminded us not to leave a tail hanging, and put up with this nonsense.  Meanwhile my mother made sure Daisy Mae wasn’t going to freeze her toes off.  She built a tiny double walled, insulated, chicken house complete with a window and a solid door.  At most the chicken house could have held three small chickens or two big ones.  I could reach in and feel that Daisy Mae’s body heat was warming the interior.  When it got bitter cold, we could put a light in there for warmth.  At sunset the door was closed, and the first person heading out to the outhouse in the morning opened the door.  

All went well until I read a paragraph in “Ripley’s Believe It Or Not” about a chicken that could swim.  Could Daisy Mae swim?  I often kicked about in an inner tube with her on my lap, but I never put her in the water.  Remember ...... I’m only about ten years ago and no one is paying attention to what I’m doing.  I put Daisy into the water, just for a moment.  Immediately I knew she wasn’t going to make it into Ripley’s, but the damage was done.  A few days later my dear Daisy died of pneumonia.  I was devastated.  Not only had I lost my pet, but I was responsible.  

My next chicken was too old when I got it -- probably just two or three weeks.  Nina was a pretty bantam hen, but she didn’t tame down.  She happily pecked about the yard and always knocked on the kitchen window when she wanted to lay an egg.  Her choice of place for egg laying was a Quaker basket in the living room.  Nina would go straight to the basket, make a big fuss over the small plastic jar of Elmer’s Glue in the basket, and then sit tight until the egg was laid.  But she wasn’t a pet ..... so off to a farm she went.  

My fourth, and last chicken was a disaster.  As usual we didn’t know the sex the little chick, but I named it Pinocchio.  He should have been named Darth Vader or the Terminator.  I only had my chick a few days when I was shipped off to my grandmother again -- without Pinocchio.  My parents assured me they would take good care of Pinocchio.  They did.  He had plenty of food and safe harbor, but no bike rides, inner-tube swims, and never got dressed up in doll cloths.  By the time I came home in the fall he was an aggressive monster with spurs an inch long.  One of our dear friends was attacked when she got out of her car.  Ruth had to have stitches to mend her leg.  Needles to say, Pinocchio got farmed out to another farm.  But this time I didn’t mind.  Pinocchio and I never had enough time together to bond.  

My chicken days were over, but I had learned several important lessons, the most important being they can be wonderful pets, but they need lots of care and attention to include humans in their flock.  I look back fondly at the time when I was a member of a chicken family.