The Write Perspective

One of my jobs as a child was taking  care of the various animals that accumulated at our place. One species in particular stands out in my mind. 

A lady we’ll call Karen had somehow gotten ahold of Mom’s number. She would text an average of thrice a week with some kind of request: “Could you can 17 jars of tomatoes for me? I have the jars, all you have to do is drive an  hour to pick them up, get the tomatoes, can them for me, and bring them back.”  “Would you sew me curtains? I’ll provide the thread!” Or, “Please bring me groceries.”The sad part was she took care of two special needs children so Mom felt sympathetic. 

One day I had Mom’s phone when a text came from Karen. “Mom! Karen texted again.”

“Mom looked sad. “I don’t wonder why someone gave her my number. They just wanted to get her off their back! Well I’m ready to give her someone else’s—— oh!! She asked if we could raise 100 chickens for her this summer!” Shari and I laughed. 

 “I wonder how she’ll turn that down,” Shari observed. Mom was busy texting back. Having complete faith that the person gave me life would preserve the quality thereof I left and forgot about it.

A few days later Mom delivered the grim news: “We’re getting 150 chickens and you girls will be in charge of taking care of them.” I knew that, translated into clear English, meant Shari and Shana would help for the first two days, lose interest, and the responsibility would fall heavily on my chubby shoulders. 

 According to plan, they bought the chicks and Shari and Shana, though impressed with their cuteness, expressed no interest in keeping them alive. 

As the cute baby chicks grew into awkward teenagers, my patience for their ridiculous behavior was sorely tested. For example, they went through approximately 35 gallons of water a day, first by over-hydrating themselves to the point of bloating then dumping the leftovers. Their eating habits could easily have been called gluttony. Most of my  life was spent keeping the stupid things alive. 

“I’m too young for this!!” I would scream on occasion. I learned early on to do this only when the older siblings were out of earshot. Upon hearing this desperate plea, they would launch into tales of how when they were three year olds they could milk 300 cows, single-handedly, before 6:00 a.m. then head out to the garden and harvest 20 bushels of peas, all shelled, before breakfast. 

If Shana and Shari were nearby I would look significantly in their direction and gently appeal to their conscience. “If you don’t help me I’m telling Mom.” This ploy never worked. Shana and Shari giggled on the couch as Mom gave me the “this builds character” lecture. Personally I thought I had more character than I could stomach and would be happy to share.

In a huff, I left the three giggling women and sought the comfort of pious older siblings.

As if feeding and watering the little beasts wasn’t providing enough character, Mom soon announced that I needed to start letting them out during the day. I was, of course, a little dismayed at this but had no idea how major the task would be. 

The first evening I naively headed out to open the door and pictured the chickens filing neatly past me into the chicken house, possibly even giving me a nod and smile of thanks for offering them shelter from wolves and other hungry animals. 

I opened the door and clapped my hands, “Okay people! Time to go to bed!” They kept pecking the dirt. I made my voice meaner, “Get inside right Now!!!” Still nothing. I tried chasing them in but they became flustered and scuttled around in circles, wings flapping nervously.

I captured a slow chicken, tossed him inside, and went after another. By the time I had it caught the first one was back outside pecking the dirt and watching me out of the corner of its nasty eye.

Many angry minutes later I developed a sophisticated system. My calculations revealed that if I chased a herd of chickens into a corner, then shoved a 5-gallon bucket in amongst them – Presto! Three chickens in a bucket.

I’d dump them into the chicken house then quickly slam the door shut. Sadly, the door missed most of them as they rushed further into the house. A few of the less idiotic watched their friends’ capture and, seeing me coming with the bucket, raced to the door.

 By the end of the summer I had it mastered and could neatly put them away in 10 minutes. 

Once Mom, curious what all the ruckus was about, followed me out to watch. “Wow! That’s quite the ordeal, isn’t it?!” I thought she felt sorry for me and would  make the others help more.

“One thing I don’t understand,” she commented, “is why you have to be so loud. I always thought the squalling and screaming was coming from the chickens.” 

So the summer passed and finally the decision was made to butcher. I took great joy in beheading the little fowls  that had cast a shadow over my life.  

The next few months whenever we had chicken for supper, I would think of Karen and wonder if she ever fully appreciated all the hard work that went into her “healthy, homegrown” chickens. I never found out, because after Mom received the paltry, or poultry, payment she found someone else sympathetic to Karen’s case and gave her the number.

    Epilogue 

“Be sure your sin will find you out.” Numbers 32:23

Shana came to me nine years later with a confession.

One day Shari and Shana had to do chores when I was unavailable. They apparently forgot to give them water and later found the chickens lying, unmoving on the ground. 

Shari: “Oh noooo!” 

Shana: “Aww! They’re taking naps! I didn’t know chickens do that!”

 Shari: “They’re not taking naps, simpleton! We didn’t give them water and now they’re dying!”

Shana’s eyes widen. “What are we gonna do?”

Shari marched over and kicked a couple chickens then went to find a hydrant and hose. Shana followed, still confused. 

They proceeded to waterboard every one of the chickens until they came back from the brink of death, coughing, choking, and begging for Bucket Lady. Shari warned Shana of the dire consequences if she breathed a word to anyone.

If only I’d have know this back then, I’d have been more persistent in making them regularly do chores.