birdie drama - part 1

Ok, ok, one more chicken story, and I’ll stop. But this one has two parts.

Part 1:

Dusk was approaching. The path to the chicken coop was a wash of dusky brown earth, golden leaves and darkening sky. All of the birds were gathered around the henhouse, getting ready to crowd inside, pecking at the dirt, gossiping with each other about the day. Then there was another sound- a tiny, high-pitched shriek. We rounded the corner to discover a circle of full grown chickens ganging up on the tiniest, runtest, baby chick of the bunch. They pecked at her till she bled, chasing after her when she ducked and screamed and tried to flee. Her mother and the other peeps were already inside the henhouse ruffling their feathers, and none of them bothered to come to the rescue. As we looked on in horror, the big orange rooster jumped on top of the runt’s tiny frame. She buckled under the weight while he pecked, heedless, into her head. That is when a human shriek joined the sound of animals torturing a baby. It was A. She bounded into the coop, yelling and waving her arms, moving faster than I’d seen her since I arrived. The murderous birds bristled and bawked and ducked out of the way while A, still yelling, scooped up the runt.

The little bird shivered in her hands. She was smaller than my fist. And bloody. The big orange rooster had scalped her. A square of flesh and feathers hung from a string off the top of her head where all that was left was the white dome of her skull.

We brought the runt inside and put her in the box with some pine shavings and water. In the dark of the box, she got very quiet, but every time we opened the lid and peered inside, the room filled with the sound of her peeping.
“What happened?” A’s daughter, L, opened the lid a crack to see the damage. As soon as the lid was lifted, the peep bounded out of the box and darted across the kitchen table. The dogs jumped up to inspect the activity. “Quick! Quick!” L said.

But how does one catch a bloody baby chicken on a kitchen table? I reached forward and realized I had no idea what to grab. But L was a pro, snatching it up just as it hit the floor and started running for the door. This time we closed the box and put a book on the top so that it couldn’t butt its head out.

“It’s all those new roosters.” A said as K wandered into the kitchen looking for a snack. “We’ve got too many roosters. It’s stressing out all the chickens. We’ve got to eat one.” I thought about that mean, mean orange rooster, scalping the baby. He was done for. Behind us, K discovered the box. Nobody thought to warn him. He poked his head inside- and jumped back with a gasp, his arms flailing.

“Oh dear. Was that a chicken?”
I put my head down on the table and laughed while he shrugged, disinterested, and made his way into the living room to watch tv.

A went to go get some hydrogen peroxide and a pair of scissors. “Do you want to hold or cut?” she asked me.

I swallowed. “Um, hold?” So she picked up the runt and placed her in my hands. It was so, so tiny. I could feel its little bony skeleton trembling in my hands. Then A took out the hydrogen peroxide and unceremoniously poured it over the exposed skull. The chick was small, but it sure could scream loud. It writhed and struggled in my hands. I tightened my lips.

Next A got out the scissors and started to cut off the flesh dangling from its head. This hurt more. The little bird shrieked at each snip, and ducked its head away from the blades. “Uh, I don’t think you should cut any more.” I said.
“We’ve got to cut it all off, or the other chickens will try and eat it,” she said. The bird flinched, craning its neck away, and screamed louder. I started breathing differently. “No really, I think you cut enough. That piece is still really attached to her.”

One more dose of the hydrogen peroxide, and we had tortured her enough. The peep went back in the box, and I drove into town that night positive that we had killed it.