Chickens among the pets list

In keeping with stories from the zoo, we have had quite a few weird pets in our day but some only seemed that way. If I were to tell you that chickens make great pets, trust me.
Long ago, in a far off land, someone gave us a small gold-colored chick. With care and “proper upbringing” that little creature turned into the most magnificent Buff Orpington rooster we’d ever seen.
He was huge and well he should have been. He consumed his weight in miniature marshmallows each week. They were his favorite food and he’d come lumbering across the yard when called.
In the freezing weather, a sawhorse was put in a corner of the den and “Buff” would spend the night indoors. “Buff” met his Waterloo when a large red Doberman got into the yard and did him in.
Then there was “Eggbert“, the watch chicken. He patrolled this yard like a trained watchdog. He was efficient as any alarm system on the market. You never knew where he was but he would materialize when anything strange moved in the yard. He was marked beautifully and it was a pleasure to watch him preen and primp in the sunlight.
Eggbert lasted a yay-long time and spent his last few days in a washing machine box in the dining room where we could watch over him and make him comfortable.
Then there was “Peeps”, the lone survivor of a clutch of eggs that fell victim to the raccoons and possums visiting from the football field next door. And, to add injury to insult, Peeps was crippled. That’s the way he hatched out, though you would’ve thought he was the best of the bunch. He learned to part walk/part fly to get where he wanted to go. And of all the pets we’ve ever had, he was the most spoiled.
He’d crawl up Allen’s boot, then his knees and onto his shoulder. Many a time I’d look over and they were both be napping, Allen in his chair and Peeps on Allen’s shoulder.
Peeps loved crickets, so like good parents, we spent many a day driving first to Chicot, then nearly to Port Barre, to find bait stands that had live crickets. And then the fun began. We’d turn a cricket loose on the carpet because Peeps couldn’t get enough traction on the tile floor. And after a few crickets, he’d crawl up on Allen and fall asleep.
Peeps eventually fell victim to, of all things, chicken pox. We read up on it and doctored him the best we could, but our best just wasn’t good enough. We had to put him down and buried him out where the wild crickets roam.
Next time you think of chicken, don’t think of a”‘bucket”-think of the chance you’re missing at having a chicken for a friend.

Georgie Manuel
Dec. 14, 2014