Cluck Cluck

Our city is currently evaluating an ordinance that allows city folks to raise chickens within the boundaries of our municipality. Apparently, we have few regulations on this act of husbandry due to a rather vague and lenient ordinance on the books since the 1950’s. Now that there is a renewed interest in the trendiness of having chickens in the backyard, some feel it is time to revisit the original regulations and determine whether adjustments need to be made. It isn’t that the interested parties are against chickens. Quite the contrary. Bumper stickers can be obtained with the slogan “I’m Pro-Chicken”splashed across them. A charming Rock Plymouth chicken struts its stuff as a regal logo for the organization.

I must confess that when I saw the “I’m Pro-Chicken” slogan, I was motivated to ask myself whether or not I agree with the statement. I’ve always had a love hate relationship with the little cluckers. Growing up on a farm, I had direct contact with the good, the bad and the ugly of chickendom. I’ll start with the bad. Chicken poop. It’s stinky, it’s sticky and it’s guaranteed to find your shoe no matter how careful you think you are. As the oldest daughter in my family, I was always sounding the alarm to my younger siblings to watch out for the goo as we boarded the family car on our way to church. We only had one pair of decent shoes, so an encounter with manure was a recipe for disaster. Collective groans went out from the family while we all waited for the tainted shoe to be made public ready. Not an easy task in the days before paper towels and other conveniences.

The ugly of chickens is watching their social skills. They have none. Drop an egg in the chicken coop and watch the carnage begin. There is some sort of twisted logic in their incessant need to peck away at their own egg production and each other. Icky. And beware of the rogue rooster that rules the free range territory. Despite its rather small stature, an outlaw chicken has no fear of charging much larger species, humans included. Their talons are weapons of mass destruction and I learned to keep my distance from the evil little feather beasts.

The good of chickens is eating them. It was always a big day on the farm when it was time to butcher chickens. My mom deftly whacked their heads off as we formed an assembly line of plucking and packaging. We were entertained by the sight of a few chickens running around reflexively without their heads. We also found some investigative pleasure in checking out the contents of the crop for the remains of what would have been their last meals. Despite the rather grisly nature of chicken butchering day, our love of a plate of fried chicken was not diminished and to this day, we would probably still fight for the prized and precious few gizzards.

I don’t think the “I’m Pro-Chicken” individuals are planning on having butchering parties and gizzard rallies with their feathered friends. I suspect most of the chicken folks just want to experience a bucolic lifestyle and gather a fresh egg or two. I wish them the very best but I must sound this warning.

Watch your step.