Frank loves me beyond reason. I know it because he has built my chicken yard three times. There are, of course, scads of other love-filled tasks he undertakes on my behalf, but those things generally would seem reasonable to the outside observer. Building the chicken yard three times defies logic.
The original rectangular chicken yard of 4×4 posts in concrete which enclosed the chickens on the top as well as the sides would have been perceived as perfectly adequate by any thoughtful individual. When I took a notion to enlarge the chicken yard and divide it into two separate spaces, so that I could rotate planting clover in one side while the chickens scratched in the other, Frank built it. He even designed the top to have removable panels, so that I could step into the yard to make repairs. Some months later I changed my mind and requested a bigger walk-in chicken yard. Frank designed it and we built it. It is 20 feet long by 12 feet wide. At the front edge it is 8 feet high and it drops off to a 6 foot ceiling in the back. The roof is chicken wire and the sides are enclosed with nylon screening. It is a chicken breezeway. I am full of such foolish ideas and I am made credible only by Frank’s blind devotion to me.
Towards the end of the latest chicken yard project Frank and I were both standing inside the new chicken breezeway tacking up the last of the screening. Frank had spent every spare minute of the previous week working on the project. His initial haste to get it done had stemmed from the fact that the chickens had to be cooped up in the chicken house while the yard was being rebuilt. Once most of the screening was up, we had let the chickens out, but they were not entirely safe from racoons or owls until we finished the last few feet of screening near the top. Frank was standing on the second step of the ladder hammering the tacks along the top 2×6 and I was below holding the nylon screen roll when Stripey, the rooster, snuck up behind him and jumped up in a flurry of wing flapping. Frank yelled in surprise and I dropped the screen to rush over to Stripey, but I was too late to prevent the puncture from his spur on Franks left leg.
Over the three years I have known Stripey I have tried to understand his point of view. I have watched him strut around the chicken yard like the big cheese. I would laugh and say to folks, “You know that’s where the word cocky comes from. It’s that strutting attitude of the cock.” Although I find it amusing to watch, it remains impossible to figure out how a 10 pound, 1 foot high bird that is also the inspiration for the saying, “You’re a scaredy chicken” could muster any kind of cocky _attitude.
Maybe, I thought, he really knows he’s only a chicken, but he’s just incredibly brave. He feels compelled to protect the hens against all odds. He is willing to risk chicken kicking to be the hero rooster. I gave him the benefit of the doubt up until the very moment that he snuck up behind Frank who had been working for 7 days on building the dream chicken yard and spurred him on the leg thanklessly. Now, I think Stripey is only incredibly low on brain power. He just doesn’t recognize the danger he creates for himself.
That evening Frank finished the screen while I dangled Stripey upside down from his scrawny chicken legs. Without much discussion we put away the tools. Later in the house, Frank cleaned his cut and spritzed it with Bactine. A week went by and Stripey continued to strut around the chicken yard all puffed-up and Frank continued to watch from outside the screen without comment. Then yesterday evening, Frank walked over to the closet where I was hanging up clothes and said, “I’d-like to make turkey hash this weekend. I’d like to make it with turnips instead of potatoes. We’ll need celery and carrots.”
“Sure,” I replied a little bewildered that he was planning meals so far in advance. “I guess I can cook a turkey for Saturday night and then you can make turkey hash on Sunday. You know,” I went on as I leaned over to put tee shirts in the dresser drawer, “I may have trouble getting a big turkey since it’s May and that’s sort of a Thanksgiving/Christmas meal.”
“Stripey,” he interrupted in a calm, serious voice from behind me.
I whipped around to look in his eyes. I saw the slight smile on his lips and I knew it had been a week of deliberating ·about Stripey’s demise. Getting back at Stripey was not about simply ringing his neck or cutting him up into nice servable slices, but chopping him into “turkey” hash.
Wide-eyed at the thought I said, “I’m sure I can get a nice big turkey breast that will work out great.”
Stripey is safe from Frank’s Henkel cleaver for now, but not because of any redeeming feather. Stripey, like the chicken breezeway, is a living testament to Frank’s unquestioning love for me. Of course, one spur to me and he’s beef stew-!