We have a chicken who thinks she is a dog. She lives in a tenement-style rabbit hutch, but when it rains she claims squatter's rights to the dog house. My mom thinks this is chicken abuse. "She needs someplace proper to perch! She has no place to lay her eggs!"
Ah, but she does. She is a free-range chicken and every day (well, every other day, now that she is advancing in age) is Easter in our backyard. You never know where an egg might be found. And if she catches you finding one, she will be sure to hide it better the next time.
Drumstick greets me each morning at the kitchen window (unless I oversleep - she must get on with her day). She watches every move I make at the sink. Watches me fix my breakfast, make coffee. It is as if she is the kitchen foreman, making sure I get the job done right.
Confused identity aside, Drumstick lives her life with purpose. If the hutch door has not been opened by sunrise, her raucous calls rouse us from our sleep. Her routine begins the moment she is sprung from confinement. I can see from whence the author of The Little Red Hen drew her inspiration.
There is only one exception to the routine. When Fred is in the yard working, Drumstick will gladly interrupt her own business to faithfully trail him about the yard, pecking at his knees now and then so he will bend over and scratch her under the chin. (Do chickens have chins?) He is the object of her affection and devotion, always. Priority one.
Drumstick is devoted, purposeful, sassy, and confident. She knows her mind and her turf, and she defends both with ardor. Not a day goes by that she does not attend to her daily chores, disciplined and dedicated.
Sometimes I envy her. She never wonders how to prioritize the duties of the day. Never forgets an appointment. Never regrets words misspoken, or not spoken at all. She knows her place. Knows what she is here to do. And she does it, faithfully. There is a rhythm to her days. She knows to follow that rhythm. Every afternoon she rests. Finds a shady, secluded place in the yard and listens to the quiet.
Ah, to be attuned to the rhythm of life, to truly listen for it, and listen to it. I want to dance to that rhythm.
Love this, Drumstick sounds like a great pet! And, I especially loved the last paragraph, I envy Drumstick also!
ReplyDeleteAnd what a great name! Your post made me want to hug drumstick...does she let you do that?! :)
ReplyDeleteDrumstick does let me hug her - if she's in the mood. Only on her terms, of course.
ReplyDeleteGeorgeann,
ReplyDeleteI loved reading this today. Mostly because I'm really happy to connect with you and Fred in this pixelized way. It's great to think of that chicken hanging out with Fred. I don't suppose she knows in her bird-brain what Fred is actually saying when he calls, "Druuuuummmmmstick". Saw a seagull yesterday, come to think of it, who reminded me that even someone takes your drumstick, there's always a second one to hop around on.
Also, I like your reason for writing here, as a "place for [your] words to land".
Thanks for connecting earlier in the week. It was great to see your name as a reader (in three years, you're the first who would admit it.)
Much love to the Kurtz's from the Douros'