Chickening In

I have chickened out of many things in my life, including skateboarding tricks with my friends back in eighth grade, black diamond runs at the Lake Louise ski hill, and even bungee jumping in Queenstown, NZ.

As I think back to those moments, I can almost feel the gnawing fear in my stomach and the paralysis that enveloped me as I stared at the skateboard ramp, the ski slope or the ravine I was to jump into with merely a bungee cord to protect me from death. Each time I chose not to try, I felt disappointed in myself but ultimately relieved that I was escaping potential injury or worse.

Now for the first time in my life I am chickening in, and, perhaps, even coining a new term. Chicken in: to give in to the relentless requests of a loved one and agree to have a chicken coop and thus chickens on your property.

Thus far, chickening in has not involved a great deal of effort on my part, but Phyll has been working diligently, because as she says, and I can't make this up, she is trying to make a nice home for our chickens.

 As the picture shows, she built a chicken coop from a kit (purchased from TSC should you be interested), and then built a larger run around it, using our old gazebo--Bern's genius plan--and covering it with, you guessed it, chicken wire. Thus the chickens have a small run where they are enclosed by two fences, and a larger run where they are still fully protected from the likes of coyotes and foxes.

Meet Stella and Fern who arrived on Thursday. I took this photo Friday when I checked their nesting boxes, hoping to see two eggs shining up at me. It turns out that fear can scare the poop out of a creature (or in the case of the Gingerbread Man from Shrek a jelly tot), but not so an egg.

Saturday morning, while Phyll slumbered, I ventured out again secretly hoping that I would be the one to discover the first eggs. Do you see how addictive chickening in is?  I protested their arrival for years, and now I am out there, observing their habits and hoping they will provide me with a small meal.

Picture this pastoral scene: Chebbi stood barking at the gate, wanting to know what these new creatures were, Willow wandered into the yard, crying from hunger after a night on the lam, and the chickens clucked in protest at the dog, the cat, and their whole new world.

I lifted the roof of their home to find they had laid no eggs, but they had managed to make a big mess by knocking over their water dish that Phyll had hanging by a wire. Even though their feet look quite rubbery, I didn't think they would appreciate a wet floor, so I cleaned it up while they clucked and cooed with their red combs flopping back and forth all the while. At one point they got quite bold; the first one walked down the little ramp, and the second came careening behind her, but they soon scrambled back inside.

Phyll has spent many hours since then trying to position their water container so they don't keep knocking it over. She has also been checking them every few minutes to see if they've ventured out of the coop where she has placed scraps for them to peck at. She claims one is bolder than the other and has ventured further. As the sun was setting last night, one of the girls did lean her head out to enjoy the last golden light of the day.

Phyll is very excited about this new addition to the family, and in fact while at school, ostensibly working but really just finishing this blog post, she sent a photo, with a Lindor chocolate juxtaposed for perspective on our wee egg. I can’t help but feel the twisted ends of the wrapper look like wings.  How perfect.

It may be a few weeks yet before we are whipping up quiches and soufflés, but I have to admit that, so far, chickening in feels much better than chickening out.