Hick’s Valley chicks

Every time I pass the Hicks Valley Chicken Ranch, I keep an eye out for escaped chickens. There are three naughty chickens that have figured out a way to fly the coop, and make their way towards freedom, rather than be stuck in the pasture with hundreds of  hens, all grubbing for the same morsels. 

It’s not for lack of food, there is plenty of food in the pasture. For some reason these three hens think that life is always greener on the other side, though they are not cattle. We’ve taken to naming them since we only see three escapees every single time we drive down the road several times a week, so I know the stretch well. 

I have named the chickens Galloping Gertie, because she lummoxes along with her sides heaving like bowls full of jelly. She is built like Jabba the Hutt. The other two have more pedantic names than anything else—or swearwords for lack of a better term. 

Chicken number two is called Fuckwad because she is a little fuckwad. She is so small, she can slip through the cracks to get her own way. And the third one, because she is so excellent at being busted, is called Jailbait. No matter what, even if they re not the same chickens, three chickens always escape. These are their names. 

You may well ask what happens if a fourth chicken escapes. Good question. However, because we are partial to the Indo-European law of threes, we inherently like this balance of three chickens versus four. Now, of course, if this were Japan, then it will be de rigueur to have four chickens as four as considered a lucky number in Japan. Three is bad juju. 

However, we are not Japan. We are in the west. This is the land of cows and rolling hills. A chicken ranch is all little exotic here, but with, shall we say, designer foods free range chickens and free range chicken eggs have become a big thing.

Even though there is heavy frost in the mornings, after the deluge of epic proportions breaking the spine of the drought, there are riotous signs of spring everywhere, from the butter cups, showing their little yellow heads, pale creamcups, and the dandelions grow taller, not to be undone by their splendor. 

But more than anything else there are formerly amorous dead skunks littered all over the middle of the road, not to mention by the side of the road. Usually they come in pairs. But every once in a while, there are a few ménage a trois. Kind of like the hens. Good things come in threes. 

The owners of the chickens at Hicks Valley Chicken Ranch say that every night they round up those errant hens and lock them back in their chicken palace. It’s a lovely monstrous affair with two turrets, and those chickens should be very proud of their abode. 

Why these three chickens are not contented with their pasture, defies logic. Tonight the chicken wranglers will round them up and put them back in their corral. But come morning they will make a run for the border. This might be the place where you ask where did the chicken cross the road? Entirely appropriate and I do understand the reason why you ask that. 

So far, so good—the chickens have not decided to take on that particular aphorism, a good thing too, because a lot of creatures get squished along that particular stretch of road—human, or otherwise. 

For a while, there, there were escaped domestic bunnies living in the culvert alongside the road, near where the chickens love to hang out. They did well, until they got too full of themselves, and decided to cross the road. 

Well, you know what happened next. On long stretches of country backroads where everybody’s hitting the straightaways at 60 mph, those rabbits were toast. Flat rabbits. Ears luffing in the breeze. Situation like that, you’d think they would know better. You rarely see jackrabbits turning their ears into spinnakers. 

Besides, they’re native, even though they did not evolve with cars. The only time you need to worry about jackrabbits is when they decide they’re going to duke each other out. They usually don’t pick the middle of the road to do that, but you never know. 

There have been instances where they have decided that the middle of the road is the best place to have a sparring match. Now, if you’ve never seen jackrabbits, having at it, you’re in for a treat. Jackrabbits are hares, not rabbits. More on that later.

You know those medieval texts that show rabbits with swords, lances bows and arrows? Well, it wasn’t some strange flight of fancy or merely a case of bored monks doodling in the margins, it was based on observation of hares having at it. Hares, not rabbits. There is a distinction. 

Surely you’ve heard the term, mad as of March hare? Well, March is breeding season, so the hares are out en masse doing what they do best—which ironically is not breeding like rabbits, because they’re not even rabbits. 

Hares are undomesticated distant cousins of the rabbit, but that’s as close as it gets. It’s like comparing gazelles to sheep, and saying they’re one thing. Just because they look somewhat alike does not mean they are the same thing. This is not a time for simile. There are some equivalences, but not many. 

Back to the hares, they love to box each other, and it doesn’t matter what sex. They are equal opportunity brawlers. They will take on each other in spring, it’s a kind of a mad ritual. They stand on their hind legs and spar along with the best of boxers. The winner takes all. All of what, I’m not sure. Lagomorphs are not betting animals. 

But I digress. Back to those chickens. If it makes any difference, they’re all redheads. Hot red feather. So I guess they’re Rhode Island reds, hard to say. Whatever the breed, they are indeed all feisty redheads. And it is a sight to see, a vast sea of red chickens, amongst the verdant fields of early spring. 

They are fearless. They eyeball you as you drive by, almost as if dare you to do something about it. Cheeky chicks. If they could, they would probably act like school kids and go Nanner nanner nanner, and stick their tongues out at you, but we are talking about chickens here. So their best thing is to do a strut, a waddle and a shake and call it a day.