The chicken, Bjorn, and the human hair ponchos

So, the chicken coop. I had to bury a chicken last week, and that got me started on my chicken obsession again. I probably need to explain.

An obsession is “a persistent disturbing preoccupation with an often unreasonable idea or feeling” according to Merriam-Webster. Oh wait, maybe I should explain burying the chicken. In strictest terms, I suppose you might quibble with the word “bury” unless your concept of being buried involves Hefty bags and a trash can. If you think of the Hefty bag as a shroud, though . . . well, that’s not the point. The point is, why was I disposing of a chicken?

My neighbors Bjorn (Not His Real Name) and Maggie (Ditto) are out of town for a while, and they asked me to “keep an eye on” their house. Of course, that means to me, snoop around as much as possible without being caught by security cameras or other neighbors. While snooping around the barn, I noticed that Bjorn’s last elderly chicken wasn’t looking very active. On closer inspection, her lack of activity turned out to be a direct result of her being dead.

I immediately did what any good neighbor would do. I said, “Rick, let’s scram and act like we never saw this!” Oh yes, Rick was right there with me, although he would argue that he had come along just to see if the owl was in the oak tree. Anyway, I thought to myself, if I just let sleeping chickens lie, nobody would ever have to know that I was snooping around in the barn, besides which, I wouldn’t have to figure out what to do with a dead chicken.

Evidently I still have a shred of conscience though, because it wasn’t long before I decided that being greeted by a dead and mouldering chicken might not be the perfect capper to a nice little trip, and that I had better deal with it. So I wrapped her up in double Hefty bags and deposited her in Bjorn’s trash can. My neighborliness didn’t extend to giving up my trash space. I will tell the Bjorn-Maggie grandchildren that we gave Mrs. Chicken a nice burial with some pomp and circumstance of course, since as you know, I am All About the Children.

So, how did this mildly grisly situation rekindle my Chicken Obsession? Here’s the deal. Since I don’t live at the country house full time, I have had to put chickens on the back burner (heh heh) since they need full time care. But wait! What about the neighbors?

Bjorn, although he has not been formally diagnosed, and may not even admit it, is certainly a member of my tribe. Once you have admitted to having ADD, it’s not hard to recognize borderline cases when you see them. Bjorn, however, isn’t even close to borderline; he is right at the far end of the curve next to me. So now that the last of the Bjorn chicken dynasty has perished, I believe it will be relatively easy to talk Bjorn into going into the egg business with me. I am already dreaming of brooders and pullets and big brown organic eggs. And the little farm stand by the side of the road, where along with the eggs, we’ll sell raccoons carved out of soap and ponchos woven from human hair. Oh, the wonder of it all.

This may be a little immature, er, premature, since Bjorn and Maggie aren’t back yet, and don’t even know the chicken is dead. Or that their goose is cooked.