My very good friend Victor in Albuquerque sent me this tantalizing tale from his “Nextdoor” neighborhood bulletin board earlier this week.
Found chicken. Anyone missing a chicken? Caught a chicken in the middle of the road on Tramway and Copper. It’s really sweet, definitely seems like someone’s pet.
So this raises all sort of questions, not the least of which is the “why did the chicken…”
First, why would someone in that particular urban neighborhood be raising chickens? And why would someone keep a chicken as a “pet?” And how do you determine if a chicken is “really sweet?”
My Nebraska farm girl wife grew up with chickens roaming around her family homestead and says she considers all such fowl as being “pretty mean.”
“They would just as soon peck you as anything,” she observed. “And anyone who has ever talked about how great ‘free range’ chickens are has never had to clean up after them.”
My only experience with chickens occurred at about age 10 when someone gave us a couple of cute fuzzy newborn chicks which quickly turned into ugly, scraggly birds. We named one of them “Chewedupon” because the neighbor’s dog chased it down and during the subsequent “chewing” process removed several feathers and other anatomical features. When Chewedupon and his companion passed away, I don’t remember any tears or fond farewell speeches. I also don’t remember any great chicken dinner either, since I doubt there was much left of either of them.