Monday, April 19, 2010
My mother was telling me about a friend of ours. This friend, a lady of a certain age and comfortable position, decided that backyard chickens were just not enough. She bought a cow. A real cow. And she put that cow into the backyard of her suburban McMansion in our lovely neck of the woods. Pretty soon the cops came knocking at her door. Are you keeping a cow in your yard? You have to get rid of it.
I was in stitches, "So she no longer had a cow on her hands, she had two sides of beef?"
I live where I do because I don't want to live on a farm. Not even a little bit. I don't harbor romantic notions of tending livestock. I don't find peace in shooing a swarm of flies constantly at my door. I don't want to wear an apron stained with slop. I've almost no wish to till the earth, nor invest in a combine. I don't want a back 40.
And I do not want to keep chickens.
When my mom told me the cow story we laughed, and then we got down to brass hens. "I don't understand," mom said, "Are people actually keeping chickens?"
"Oh, yes," I replied, "It's a thing. Lots of people have backyard chickens."
"But chickens are disgusting!"
"Do you remember the chickens in Spain? I never want to see another chicken."
"I remember! They were mean, and dirty, and used to peck me when I went to feed them; it hurt!"
"And people are keeping them here? And they like it?"
I nodded, leaning my elbows on the cow-leather ottoman and spilling out the names of some of our neighborhood poultry shelters. We shared a look of incomprehension. Honestly. Chickens!
Now, a farm-fresh egg? That's a horse of a different color.
Welcome to Things I Don't Get Week!
I don't get them.
See the first TIDGW here.