it's beginning to look a lot like chicken
At The Fitzgerald Home for Wayward Critters, we find ourselves now in the company of a chicken, a flying chicken, no less. She's a Red Star laying hen, a docile bird and a voracious eater with mottled feathers that simultaneously evoke the warm luster of autumn and the summery sensations of an orange creamsicle. Also, she's not technically ours, but all indications are that she has wholeheartedly adopted us. There is rarely any time of day when Freida Lay cannot be spotted scarfing down seed and suet in our front yard, crossing the driveway--presumably to get to the other side--or flapping her wings with such power that she's able to ascend from the grassy lawn to the top of our six-foot fence where she then performs stunning displays of chicken acrobatics. (To counter any accusations of hyperbole, given the plump build and scrawny legs of the average hen, anything beyond waddling and pecking at the same time qualifies, in my mind, as a stunning feat. She also knits. And, before you bawk, I'll come clean: that part's just a bald-faced lie.)
Freida has altered our lives in unexpected ways, most of them for the better. Dennie and I cannot resist peering out the windows in search of her every time we pass by, and the previously skittish chicken no longer runs when we are near. When talking to her outdoors, or even through the window, the hen now stops and looks directly at us, cocking her head to one side in that comically inquisitive way that farm birds do. She has effectively scared away Sunshine too, the stealthy, whiskered songbird-assassin that lurks beneath our front hedges. Although the renewed safety of our wild birds may be a positive, it seems the mere size of her is enough to intimidate our usual avian diners into feasting elsewhere. To them, the chicken's presence at the feeders must be akin to moving Godzilla into the canary's cage. Plus, frankly, Freida eats enough to put Godzilla to shame. The most notable change, however, has been in Maisie. Our gentle-hearted baby, it would appear, cannot get enough of her new feathered friend.
TUESDAY, 7:30 A.M.
Maisie stands--motionless as a statue--at the front window, head and shoulders pushing the curtain out of her way. To the left side of the porch chairs, white tail feathers shimmy in the air as Freida pecks at scattered seeds. She turns, wanders across the porch into full view. Maisie adjusts her position slightly, watching the hen's every move, resuming a level of stillness that would impress the Queen's Guard. The sound of dog food hitting a stainless-steel bowl clangs noisily from the kitchen, but, unlike every morning before, there is no clippity-clop of toenails across the wooden floor, no streak of reddish fur zooming through the room in famished pursuit of breakfast. Not even the mention of cheese disrupts Maisie's focus--and this girl, like her other Wisconsin-born parent, is a cheese addict, if ever was.
Tuesday, 10:17 a.m.
After Freida had wandered out of sight, Maisie had devoured a late meal, trotted up the stairs to the loft, and nestled herself onto the bedcovers for a midmorning nap. From downstairs, I hear her soft snores and smile. (The angelic sight and sound of a sleeping dog never gets old.) I peek outside and there she is: the ever-affable Freida Lay. Dennie's on the phone with a client. I don't want to disturb her. More to myself than anything, I whisper, "Chicken". In an instant, the steady, cadential breaths of slumber cease, ninety-pounds of dog leap to the floor with a resounding thud, and one chicken-loving shepherd races down the stairs and to the window, expression filled with joy, tail wagging. I ask her to come back to work with me, but Maisie stays. For as long as Freida is near, she does not abandon her post.
These scenes have become more commonplace--and more endearing--by the day. Even when Maisie encounters Freida in the backyard, she does not pull or try to chase her; she doesn't growl or bark or raise her hackles. She is calm, content. She adores this chicken, and the hen demonstrates an astonishing level of trust and confidence that Maisie will not harm her. Like birds of a feather, I guess gingers stick together.
WEDNESDAY, 10:24 A.M.
Freida's back for at least the third time today, stuffing her beak again. Failing once more to grasp knitting needles with her wingtip feathers, there isn't much else to pass the time. She looks up intermittently, glancing at the window. Maisie arrives. Freida moves closer. I back away to leave them in peace, observing from the far side of the room. The hen struts right up to the glass, her red peepers gazing into Maisie's eyes. Maisie does the same to her. They both tip their heads. They stay this way for a few minutes, clearly communicating something to one another. There's no aggression, no fear. If these beings were human, one might assume the scene depicted two devoted friends, sharing laughs, sharing secrets. What did they actually say to one another? Find me a legit dog-and-chicken translator, and I'll be sure to let you know. (Unless it really was a secret, of course.)
Though it would certainly be presumptuous for me to declare Maisie and Freida BFFs, there is no doubt they've become FFBs--Furry & Feathered Buds. And, while the chilly interior of our home currently resembles Santa's fantasy vacation cabin, on the outside, conditions are fowl, plumes of smoke flutter and puff from every chimney...and it’s beginning to look a lot like chicken.
Would you believe Freida snapped this selfie with her very own iFlown? A first-rate photographic fowl, I understand she captured this eggcellent shot with only one cluck. (Yeah, okay, NOW you may bawk.)