|"it's all about the attitude"|
when a routine google search on "clothes for chickens" turned up tons of photos on Pintrest of almost unendurably cute outfits for little girls (there's another whole blog in that I am sure).
|"watch me work, ladies"|
cat as the predominantly desirable pet. When Facebook begins to proliferate with chicken memes I
will feel oh-so-very-justified in my own perspicacity regarding that particular observation.
This new-to-me awareness
flung up on the digital shores of a deeply reverent and sometimes militant sub-culture of radicalized chicken farmers living in England with absolutely no idea how I had gotten there. I do not live in England. But then that's the beauty of the internet, isn't it? Suddenly my days were filled with anticipation and sometimes trepidation about the lives of chickens I had never met. It was hell.
|"the "little chicken on the praire" look"|
|"Lady Gaga...no, really"|
This brings me to a murky facet of chicken-raising life that no one really likes to talk about... The dark underbelly of competitive chicken naming. There seem to be many schools of thought
on naming chickens. Not breed names mind you, personal names. The more pragmatic
owners tend to go with culinary based themes: "Nugget" "BBQ" "Extra Crispy, "Sweet & Sour", or even "Drumstick". There are the flower aficionados who wax poetic: "Marigold, "Violet", "Petunia" or "Daisy", and herbalists who weigh in with: "Saffron", "Sage", "Rosemary" Hyssop" and "Rue". The genteel little old lady devotees: "Ethel", "Henrietta", "Lydia", or "Florence" and the ever popular literary hens: "Emma", "Elizabeth", "Jane", "Miss Bennett", and "Mr Knightly". Superheros, TV & movie characters, rock stars, Greek gods, Middle Earth inhabitants, Country Western singers, and Shakespearean characters abound. Then of course there are the quirky, rogue, silly, baffling or just-plain-stupid names. I will refrain from citing examples for obvious reasons. My own personal candidates should I ever consider taking the poultry plunge are: "Moe", "Larry", and "Curly". Call me old fashioned.
|"stylin' the sweater swag"|
And I knew right then that I could never, ever hope to compete with the folks out there who minister to "special needs" chickens. That I would never, ever own a chicken plucker, hen catcher, brooder clamp lamp, egg candler, or
a pair of clip-on chicken blinders. That I would never, ever
obsess about depressed hens, droopy roosters, or how to quantify a chicken's intelligence. Nor would I ever, EVER, discuss the merits of whether to wash or not wash a poo-covered egg that had been deposited by an obliging hen.
I mean really.