Chicken Rebellion

I must seem a bit like the capricious, vengeful god of the Old Testament. To my chickens, that is. Some days I bless them with a fresh patch of garden, (remember the mobile coop I made them? Aka The Impenetrable Movable Fortress) fresh water and fresh chicken feed - all in one day!

And then, on other days, things can get a little sketchy. Water this day, food the next, new garden patch once a week. Sometimes, especially with the heat we've been having, they seem almost preoccupied with their water; not even taking the usual few moments to eye me suspiciously before sucking it down single-mindedly.

This morning was time for salvation, after several days of testing their faith with meager rations, intermittently supplied. They had suffered much and it was only just that I should reward their devotion to me, trapped though they are, in their coop.

Lifting the coop lid, I found the water dish full of dust and the food dish likewise. I left the lid wide-open so the chickens could forage while I cleaned the coop and replenished their supplies.

By the time I returned I found the chickens on a pilgrimage, and progressing rapidly (to Utah, I suspect, in search of a prophet who might guide them to a more loving, caring deity that wouldn't let their water-dish go dry). However, being the relatively omnipotent creature that I am (compared to the chickens I mean), and also loving and caring, I resolved to persuade them that a trip to Utah was not in their interest, at this time. I foresaw coyotes in their near future. Beyond that my vision of their destinies revealed only nothingness. Clearly I needed to intervene.

I did my best to communicate the dangers of their proposed trip, by placing my self between them and Utah, and then raising my arms, with an empty dish in each hand and gently waving them like tamborines in slow-motion. We had one of those rare moments of crystal-clear interspecies communication. They seemed instantly to grasp the danger the coyotes posed and agreeably began making their way back to the coop.

Once back, however, their mood was anything but agreeable. Confronted with the coop–which perhaps took on the appearance more of a jail, or some kind of death-trap, when the food and water ran out–their fear of the coyotes reached an equilibrium with their reticence to enter it. This happened just feet...inches even, from the coop entry. They became like little magnets repulsed by their polar opposite: the coop. (The cat behaves like this often regarding her safe-haven. Me (holding door open to laundry room): "C'mon kitty, food and water!?" Cat (flopping down two feet from the door): "I'll think about it.")

Suddenly the angry god within me welled up and my impulse to smite them was growing exponentially. Get in the coop! I firmly, and telepathically said (in my best James Earl Jones voice). They are birdbrains however, and didn't perceive the danger they risked in disobeying my telepathic order.

So there we stood, me holding open the door, they looking on from a distance.

While I was wondering if I should begin praying, the most intelligent of those woefully dumb beasts noticed that I had put fresh hay in their sleeping quarters. He looked at it, and I heard the voice of Eric Cartman say "That looks pretty good.", and he began to snack at the edge of the hay. This apparently helped him to forget his obstinacy and return home, where he found ample fresh food and water. Of course the hens, to my persistent delight, follow him everywhere (he's a rather dashing fellow) and presently, all had resumed their rightful residence.