I have chickens. We've just moved house and two bantam hens came with the property. I didn't want them; but they were already in the garden and soon they had somehow acquired names. I've asked around to find out how long I'll have to put up with them, but nobody knows the average chicken's lifespan. The consensus opinion seems to be that they usually live till just before Christmas. God help me, how did I end up owning chickens?
They're staring cold-eyed through my window as I write this and they're not very pleased. I can't be certain, because their expressions don't change much, but it's an intuitive feeling, the same kind of nape of the neck shiver you'd get if a ventriloquist swore at you under his breath. They're muttering about being descended from dinosaurs and deserving of more respect. But perhaps that's the karma of fowl. You get bored being T-Rex and then you spend millions of years evolving into something that's slow, fat, flightless and constructed generously out of white meat. In terms of evolutionary strategies, that's right up there with the buck that decided to grow a white bull's-eye on its arse.
Visitors say they're cute and nod approvingly about them being "free range". I suppose they really are free to go where they want. Personally I don't care if they set off down to the bus stop or wander into Nando's of their own accord...
"I'm so impressed with your store... Why, yes, I would like to try a complimentary sample of Lemon and Herb aftershave."
I would just prefer not to own chickens.
I'm not sure being free does them any good. Where are you going to go as a chicken? Other animals at least have sanctuary, a place where nobody eats them. Nobody's going to chow a cow in India. Pigs are off the menu in Palestine. But everybody eats chickens. Even vegetarians eat chicken to give them something to feel morose about. It's hard being a creature without a sympathetic prophet. What do you do when you can't hide and you can't run? Much.
This is freaky. I was going to write a blog about moving house, but I'm being hypnotised by poultry. The force is strong with them. I feel the weight of their metaphor in everything I type. The act of buying a house with borrowed money suddenly feels like putting all my eggs into one basket. Actually, it's more like putting all our eggs, the rest of our possessions, plus pets, wife and testicles in one basket, slamming the lid and waiting to see if something good happens. Maybe I shouldn't worry. Everybody goes into debt to buy a house. Maybe I'm just being chicken.
The fowl nod and cluck disapprovingly at their reflections in the window, or possibly at me on the other side of the glass. Life's one long hen party, even if it only lasts until Christmas, and it won't end there because they've probably worked out that I won't kill them. I'm too chickenshit. Was that a beaky leer? All in all, it's a pretty carefree existence. It's not as if the buggers are contributing to the mortgage. That's what being "free range" is all about.
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