Mouth Wide Open

Upon leaving my dentist appointment the other day, I could not get a break to access the frontage road that would lead me home.

So I tried a workaround: I took a back path behind a strip mall to reach a side street that would intersect my return route. And what did I spy?

Between the strip mall and the backside of a 1940s neighborhood development stood a small patch of grassy field and one bush. Foraging beneath the bush ambled three chickens—much like the one pictured, although sans accessories.

I stopped the car to fully experience the Wow moment—the juxtaposition of strip mall, manicured homes, and farm animals all within a few yards of one another.

Obviously another reminder for me that the workarounds of our lives often work out better than the plans.

[Art by Miss Mavis Stevens.]

I Started A Joke, Which Started …

Yeah, it started in a New York City bar with a prank that involved a live chicken. The prank was thoughtfully strategized, a chicken was procured, and all went well—for both the prankster and the victims. But then came the part of the plan for which no one had a plan: What should be done with the chicken?

I don’t know how many subhumans knocked their skulls together to come up with the idea, but somehow they decided to place the chicken in a garbage bag and put it into the trash bin behind the bar.

That’s the point when our hero, Sean, entered the frame. What would you do if you noticed that a bag being added to some trash was MOVING?

Sean took action immediately—and by himself. No calls to Animal Control, no waiting until the prankster ducked inside. Nosirree. Sean asked what was moving inside the bag and the man told him the story above. The man said he didn’t know what else to do. [When did thinking become so monumentally difficult for our species?]

Sean wasn’t sure what to do, either, but he knew leaving a live chicken in a trash bag was NOT an option. He also knew the two cats back home in his apartment—not to mention his landlord—probably wouldn’t appreciate a new feathered companion.

So Sean called Catskill Animal Sanctuary (CAS), and they agreed to provide a new home for Roxbury the chicken.

“The fate of animals is of greater importance to me than the fear of appearing ridiculous; it is indissolubly connected with the fate of men.”
—Émile Zola

But wait! The story gets better: Sean took his rescue one step further by signing on as Roxbury’s sponsor at CAS, and Sean’s girlfriend, Marlene—after holding Roxbury and seeing her as something more than dinner—vowed to never eat chicken again. Two people who weren’t actively engaged in animal welfare suddenly changed their lives and their perspectives because of an ill-conceived joke.

It’s National Chicken Month again, dear readers. This year, let’s celebrate by giving a hand to Sean—a fellow who, through happenstance and compassion, made a big difference in one little chicken’s world.

[Pic of Roxbury from Catskill Animal Sanctuary.]

Animals as Commodities: Kentucky Redefines “Animals,” “Pain,” and “Welfare”

I’m headed for the state capital tomorrow to hear what the Kentucky Livestock Care Standards Commission is recommending for legislation. If you live in Kentucky, I urge you to join me.

Members of the Commission were appointed by the governor and include a pork farmer, a bovine farmer, a judge, a citizen concerned about food safety, an associate dean from UK’s Ag College, a grocer, an autoworker who represents sheep and wool producers, a private investor, several veterinarians, and the pièce de résistance—a farm manager from Cal-Maine Foods, the “largest shell egg producer” in the U.S.

This Commission garnered a little publicity last year when the Humane Society of the U.S. accused it of meeting privately instead of publicly (as it’s supposed to). Since then, the Commission has been known to tweak its recommendations via e-mail rather than in public meetings.

Why so much secrecy? Because a few contentious issues are at stake—such as tail-docking and beak-cutting sans anaesthesia or painkillers and confining animals in crates that are too small for the animals to move in. Apparently, the Commission talked at length during the last meeting about whether to include the words pain and welfare in the standards.

According to Kentucky’s State Veterinarian, Robert Stout, the animals at the center of this hubbub are “commodities,” not “companions,” and he hasn’t seen the science yet that proves commodities feel pain. With “advocates” like Stout, Kentucky animals don’t need any more enemies.

However, I believe the Commission needs a language expert on board to help them suss out obfuscations and stick to clear definitions of terms. I also believe some of the Commission members need to retrieve their consciences and try not to view everything through the lens of profitability (read: greed).

For those of you who live in Kentucky, I want to share a conversation I had recently with a Bluegrass veterinarian. She lamented how many out-of-staters regard Kentuckians as ignorant and backward—even out-of-state vets characterize their Kentucky counterparts this way. I had to bite my tongue. You see, it’s people like Robert Stout who aren’t helping your image. So do Kentucky a favor and prove to the rest of the nation that you’re thoughtful and compassionate. Attend the meeting tomorrow to remind the Commission members that they’re accountable for their decisions. Remind them to see beyond the Almighty Dollar.

The 1:00 meeting is scheduled for tomorrow, July 17, at:
Office of the State Veterinarian
100 Fair Oaks Lane, Suite 252
Frankfort, KY 40601

[Photographer unknown.]

Bird Briefs

Plumage-Watch Duty Ends
It pleases me to inform you that LuckyBird now sports a full and glorious tail of red and black. The tailless Cardinal has frequented our feeder ever since I first reported him to you—sometimes alone, other times accompanied by his Sparrow pal. He always peers through the window at us, as if to say, “Hey! Are you in there?” or “Hi guys! Watcha doin’ today?” or “Are you ever going to invite me in?” He acts as if he’s part of our inner circle.


Horsepower and the Urban Barnyard
Walked down our street the other day and saw the Chickens again. They were exploring their new next-door neighbor’s driveway. I love that I can see a Maserati parked there one evening and the next watch some curious fowl strut around the same area. (Yes, my quaint, manicured neighborhood of tiny, storybook homes occasionally offers a little eye candy to car enthusiasts: Ferraris, Aston Martins, Porsches, vintage Mercedes and Jaguars… Interesting demographics here. You can’t pigeonhole these folks.)

See Me! Feed Me! Love Me!
It’s baby-bird season now and I have delighted in watching their feeding rituals. The Sparrow mothers have been feeding their offspring from our feeders—sometimes in the yard, sometimes on our window ledge. The youngsters flutter their wings at a hummingbird pace while crying at a frantic pitch. They hold their mouths open, reaching their heads toward the sky in anticipation of their mothers’ next nourishment drop. Once these babies are on their own, their first few trips to the feeders are both comical and worrisome. They teeter on the perches, fighting to remain upright. They struggle to figure out how to turn toward the food while maintaining their balance. And just when it looks like they’re about to relax into a meal, an older bird swoops in and scares them back to Square One. The laborious process begins again, but their confidence is shakier than before. The feeder is a class in bird behavior and an inkling of how much the fledglings must learn in order to survive.


Hearing a Different Tune
Confidence was no problem for one unusually small young Sparrow. He swiftly mastered the balancing part of the feeder routine, and approached the eating stage in a far more direct manner. He worked his way down the perch until he could lean against the ceramic wall of the feeder. After a bit of maneuvering, he managed to extend his right foot up onto the edge of a feeder opening and hoist his upper body in through the opening. All I could see of the diminutive acrobat was his tail and his left leg. He got what he came for and I haven’t seen him since. But I will never forget his resourcefulness and chutzpah.

“The moment a little boy is concerned with which is a jay and which is a sparrow, he can no longer see the birds or hear them sing.”
—Eric Berne

I know precious little about birds. Many times I wish I could match the song or call I hear to the bird it’s coming from. Part of me wants to know more about their behavior and social structures. But I think I derive greater pleasure from their mystery, allowing it to stoke my imagination and my fondness for them.

Hearing Our World

My husband and I took a short walk this past weekend to the end of our street and back. We fought a blustery, chill wind and a sundry of aches and pains. What’s more, we had to be alert for the minefield of tree pods and sidewalk cracks that can so easily send a distracted person to the ground.

Even so, I tried to stay aware of the natural world around us. I pointed out a new bird I’d been seeing in the neighborhood—a tiny, colorful creature who belts out a big tune unlike any other. We heard another bird new to us and spotted it in a tree. It was larger than a robin, but we were too far away to discern any details.

We were almost home when I heard a call that sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

“Listen,” I told my husband. “What is that?”

“Geese?”

We looked skyward for the flock to fly over. None did.

The call went out again. If it was a goose, it was saying something I’d never heard before, and it sounded like it was coming from behind a semi-empty house that’s undergoing renovation. Naturally, my urge to see the critters trumped any worries I might/should have had about trespassing. I cautiously stepped toward the backyard, not wanting to scare off the big birds.

I blinked. Hard. There were no geese, though there were birds, yet the sounds we’d heard didn’t jibe with what was in front of me: chickens.

Yup. Chickens were running around between the yards and the bushes. If my husband hadn’t seen them too, you can be sure I wouldn’t be telling you about my freefall from reality.

What were they saying? Were they lost? Or were they acclimating to their new home? There was evidence that the owners of the house had been moving some items in already. I knocked on a few neighbors’ doors but couldn’t rouse anyone.

A fellow who just moved into our building told me that his previous home in Downtown Lexington was next door to a backyard full of chickens, so the new cluckers in our neighborhood may not be the anomaly I thought. Time will tell how my other neighbors view the new residents.

[Art by Gustav Klimt.]

Sorrowful News About Barbie

As National Farm Animals Awareness Week draws to a close, so has the life of Barbie.

Barbie lived the better part of her existence at Catskill Animal Sanctuary with her best friend, Rambo the Ram. She started out as a Broiler chicken, yet her lifespan was more than double that of her brethren who are sent to slaughter around 6 weeks of age, their huge mutant bodies already taxing their internal organs. They’re old within the first few months of their lives.

However, free-range chickens whose genetics haven’t been tampered with can live for 35 years.
Barbie was 3-1/2. She was fortunate to have found a home in CAS and to experience air and mobility and friendship.


[Top pic is Barbie. Little Evie of the Flying Ears is from Celtic Farm Animal Sanctuary, which had to close this year from lack of funding; someone adopted Evie. The bottom pics are from the Farm Sanctuary.]

Cluck, Cluck, Cluck: Let the Holidays Begin!

While perusing the Web this weekend I discovered that September is National Chicken Month. Intrigued, I dug deeper, only to find the shallow origins of the “celebration.”

Basically, the National Chicken Council—which represents “chicken producers, processors, and distributors”—wants us to eat more chicken. And to advocate their mission, they’ll give us every resource we need to be informed consumers: an abundance of how-to info in buying, preparing, and cooking the birds.

All I have to say to that is, “Ew.”

I’m all for a National Chicken Month, but one devoted to the chicken. A month during which we study and appreciate chickens—the range of breeds, the endangered breeds, the plumage, the color palette, the personalities.

If you want to celebrate national Chicken Month my way, treat yourself to a viewing of the quirky documentary The Natural History of the Chicken. Read the tale of an urban chicken who, stolen from her backyard, brings a community together. See how chickens live when they’re not enslaved on a factory farm.

Take a moment to see chickens AS chickens, and not as dinner. This month, celebrate the intrinsic value of every chicken.

“I am sometimes asked ‘Why do you spend so much of your time and money talking about kindness to animals when there is so much cruelty to men?’ I answer: ‘I am working at the roots.’”
—George T. Angell

[The photographer of the Japanese Onagadori (first photo) is unknown; the other pics (from top to bottom)—the Faverolle Rooster, Silkie Rooster, Frizzle Hens, and Splash Polish Rooster—are from Chicken Pics.]