11/13/2012, 4:00 pm
Once upon a time in a land far away, a flourishing chicken pen secured an eclectic gathering of reasonably happy chickens, as chicken happiness goes. Each morning our industrious chicken rancher admired his chicken settlement from the comforts of his country kitchen, while enjoying his French press coffee, gluten-free toast, and two eggs over easy with a dash of Tabasco. Granddad had bequeathed the farm to his son and father to son so the resulting pride was abundant and responsibilities unending. So very attached was the rancher to his chicken dependents, he would never kill even one single chicken to eat or sell, but only harvest the eggs for personal consumption or sale in the village.
Each chicken spent his (or her) day with traditional chicken tasks and endeavors. The roosters crowed each morning around sunrise, while hens clucked all day long. They all pecked, ate, drank, scratched and pooped on everything over which their chicken butts could hover. Few if any thoughts of significance ever entered their chicken brains because, truth be told, chickens are stupid creatures devoid of reason or agenda. This is a good thing in chickens because their only known function is to be eaten or lay eggs, with a possible exception of lending inspiration for chicken decorations and pictures.
Every morning, after breakfast, the rancher purposefully trekked to the chicken pen to feed and water his chickens and gather eggs. The rancher's name has been lost to history but for convenience we shall call him Mitt. Mitt was ever so conscientious about feeding and watering his chickens. He kept them warm in winter and dry in summer and they never complained or thanked him. Animals can do neither of course, and Mitt did not expect it. In return for his conscientious effort on their behalf, Mitt thought it fair trade to gather their eggs into a basket for consumption or sale.
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Being chickens, they had no idea what frying, beating, delicacies, or slavery were; it sounded bad and they objected strongly. So the dissenting chickens set about protesting and demonstrating and demanding to be heard and placated. These were single issue chickens; no other idea ever entered their little chicken brains.
Now, each morning, when Mitt entered the chicken pen to feed, water and assure their collective well being, the small but noisy group of dissidents crowed and clucked and scratched and flapped their wings and maneuvered in attempts to poop on Mitt's shoes. This was all curious to Mitt but "chickens will be chickens," so he lacked appreciation for the seriousness of their cause. Generally you might say that Mitt noticed nothing unusual in spite of the protesting chicken's high estimation of their own effort, effectiveness, and importance.
Chickendom had been witnessing this noble cause and carryings-on for several days, which was unfortunate, because a family of foxes, who lived across the meadow and up on capitol hill, had been heretofore unaware of said chicken pen. All this new ruckus attracted the fox family's attention; so down the hill and across the meadow they came, directly to the corner of the pen opposite Mitt's kitchen window, which was conveniently obscured from observation by the hen house.
You might think that foxes are extremely clever, positioning themselves behind the hen house and out of Mitt's sight, but like chickens, foxes are quite dumb. Not as dumb as chickens because few of God's creatures are as dumb as chickens. But foxes are, contrary to common myth, of limited intelligence. Their hidden position was quite by accident. Nor did the foxes sympathize or oppose the agenda of our newly formed pro-egg party. Foxes are limited in their desires and activities. Like all animals, they eat, drink and procreate of course. But foxes are programmed to hunt and kill things. Sometimes they eat what they kill and sometimes not. So today they saw things to eat and things to kill and a fence in their way, which they proceeded to work upon with vigor and enthusiasm.
The following morning, when Mitt was performing his chores, he noticed the growing hole in the fence behind the hen house. This was alarming and Mitt set out to repair the hole immediately. One had to be on one's knees to repair a hole low enough to be accessed by fox families; this lent perfect opportunity for chicken protesters to make their position on pro-egg agendas clear to Mitt. They pooped on his head, pecked at his eyes, scratched at his face, and finally drove Mitt away from his repair duties.
Mitt was late for his second job that really supplied his living. Egg sales, frankly, do not produce enough income to pay the bills, and the economy had been terrible due to poor governmental leadership. So he decided to repair the hole later in the day, after work when he had more time and could acquire protective gear to fend off these peculiar and petulant poultry.
The pickup exhaust had not cleared the driveway before the fox family had duly rested and returned to their fence penetrating duties. Chicken genocide results from fox penetration; the entire population was quickly eradicated. Foxes are good at several things but nothing more than chicken killing. They did not brag or even think to brag, because foxes know not bragging. Chickens gone; some eaten, no fanfare.
Some say the last Rooster to die, just before those glinting fox teeth crushed his neck, was heard to say "at least we did not support Mitt." Honor in chickens, at first flush, may seem an admirable trait, but due to their inability to understand how the world works, it may be better for chickens to practice humility first and foremost, leaving single issue agendas for further down the evolutionary chain, when chicken scientists and mathematicians appear.
PS: Spending the weekend in a deer stand allows one to “remember” the old stories from one's childhood.
Graphical enhancement suggestions welcome.
