Not often does a fellow columnist stir an interest in my literary line of thought. Not often do we clash or mingle on a subject either of us puts to pencil. But last week’s column of Ray Wiseman I must admit brought forth a chuckle or two, or perhaps it was three? No I think it was four. It stated, and I quote, “Only recently I learned that some urban communities allow residents to raise chickens in their back yards.”
A statement like that is equivalent to taking the lid off of a can of worms, and knowing the chicken, as I do, they would certainly love that.
The fact that the little vine covered limestone cottage, which the Little Lady and I moved into, just a few months short of ten long years ago, had a little detached shed snuggled near the back entrance; and this coupled with the fact that both the she and the he of a long time married couple, which we just happened to be, having both farm backgrounds, left a tendency to start us thinking.
So we thought, and we thought some more, and being conservation minded our thoughts hinged on the fact that the shed needed to be well insulated. So we insulated said shed. Then, strange as it may seem to some, a pair of canaries, thought I was cute and caring, so they followed me home one day. When I asked the Little Lady if I could keep them? She, being the kind and gentle person that she was, of course said “Yes.”
This pair of canaries, though you couldn’t tell by colour or shape, turned out to be a legitimate pair. Daddy sang, and mommy built a nest, and having developed canary breeding skills as a 7-year-old on the farm as a boy, a whole flock was soon developed. So a large out-door flight, which we refer to as our aviary soon materialized.
Now, as it happened, having a large flight; left us with more available room within this cosy little shed. And I know you are not going to believe this, but I was, one day, somewhere, some place, and a very attractive little Silver Sebright Cockerel just happened to follow me home.
Now just in case you are not familiar with chicken lingo, a cockerel is a young boy chicken, and young boy chickens just happen to grow up into what is known by those whom they annoy as roosters. And roosters crow. And they sometimes crow very early in the morning.
And then the complaints started coming in. The first came from my Little Lady. Being farm oriented, she and I hadn’t been able to shake the habit of rising early. And she complained that, because of the well insulated shed, she could not hear the rooster crowing.
That was easily solved with a baby monitor. The receiver mounted below the eave by the shed window, the speaker dangled in a mock cage from our kitchen ceiling.
Then along came the warmer weather and more complaints started pouring in. They came from the left, they came from the right, they came from behind, they came from across the street, they even came from the people just passing by on the street. Their complaints were all one and the same. “What ever happened to your chickens? I didn’t hear them this morning.”
In the meantime folks, several more self winding alarm clocks have followed me home. I am now owned by Silver Sebrights, Golden Sebrights, English Game, and Eberheart, a golden laced cochin, who struts daily around our yard, crowing occasionally, and gobbling up any and all of the insects that happen to invade our garden.
Eberheart, “our killer cochin” struts about as if he owns our yard. If you have not yet had the pleasure of meeting Eberheart, then man you have not yet lived. I challenge you, and you too, Mr. Ray Wiseman, to come and meet Eberheart, face to face. Everybody just loves Eberheart’s sophisticated strut.
Take care,’cause we care.