time to run and play in special areas she had gated off for them.
She sent me to the smaller barn at first when she saw me. She simply pointed, and I knew where to go, and I trudged through to the barn after a short detour to the pigpen. Melissa Lynn snorted her way over and licked my hand. I bent down and put my hands around her neck. She nuzzled my face, snorting happily. The piglets snorted, too, and I laughed.
The laughter felt good, freeing, as if it had been held down by a lead lid and chains for years. I gave them all another hug, fell on my butt in the puddle, and the piglets snorted away, already busy with their day, things to do, troughs to eat out of, mud to roll in. The life of a pig is very busy, you know.
When I stood outside the barn—painted purple, of course, for good luck and good sex, Aunt Lydia had said—I could hear “the ladies” clucking, soft and comfortable, as if they were snoozing.
Then, as if they had a sixth sense and knew I was there and freedom and food were only seconds away, their clucking took a new turn, sounding shrill and strident, as if someone were dropping their bottoms into a pail full of ice and giving them a little shake.
I opened the barn door.
Shocked, I could only stare at what seemed like a million chickens flying out the door, their mellow clucking changing to high-pitched squawking. When one flew at my head, I ducked, stood again, then had to lean to my right to avoid another chicken, then to my left, then back down again.
Chicken after chicken flew out of that barn. I could almost hear their commentary: “Who the hell is that? She didn’t open the door right! Where’s Lydia? What is this barn coming to, when the servants quit?”
When the stampede was over, the ladies settled and pecked at the ground, I ventured into their domain. Lydia had told me the night before where many of the eggs would be. She had painted different bookshelves bright colors and lined them up against the walls or laid them flat against the wood chips and hay. She always put a golf ball on the shelves so the chickens would think they were looking at a real egg and, as she said, feel comfortable about dropping their insides.
The chickens loved it, laying eggs every day. When the chickens were too old and not laying anymore, Lydia gave them away to a group that would send fresh chicken breasts out to women’s shelters and homeless places in the city. She hated sending chickens away and often kept them long after they were good for egg-laying.
On the day her friend Albert brought his truck around to transport the older chickens to the Chicken Slice and Dice business, as she called it, she would always help load the chickens, blowing them kisses, hugging them tightly, then go to bed for the rest of the day and cry and grieve as if she’d given away her best friends.
But the next day, it was business as usual. Did I mention that Aunt Lydia is a hard-core businesswoman?
So I went through the bookshelves and the nests, then looked for the “secret piles,” as Lydia calls them—places where the chickens all like to lay their eggs. Every so often, she’ll find a new “secret pile.”
This, I think, is the ladies’ way of keeping secrets. They all lay their eggs in some nook or cranny—between the bookshelves, behind them, anywhere—and finally Aunt Lydia will find the hoard. Usually there’s about seventy eggs by that time, and even as she’s pulling them out and putting them in her baskets, the ladies will wander over and lay more eggs.
So the secret gig is up, but the ladies know it’s a good place to relieve themselves, so they carry on a bit more.
I heard Aunt Lydia come in the barn.
“Darlin,’ Julia,” she yelled. “Saw the chickens flying at your face a bit ago. Too bad I didn’t have my camera. Now wouldn’t that be dandy? We could win a million dollars on one of those TV shows.”
“The ladies were a little anxious to get out today.”
“The ladies are always
She sent me to the smaller barn at first when she saw me. She simply pointed, and I knew where to go, and I trudged through to the barn after a short detour to the pigpen. Melissa Lynn snorted her way over and licked my hand. I bent down and put my hands around her neck. She nuzzled my face, snorting happily. The piglets snorted, too, and I laughed.
The laughter felt good, freeing, as if it had been held down by a lead lid and chains for years. I gave them all another hug, fell on my butt in the puddle, and the piglets snorted away, already busy with their day, things to do, troughs to eat out of, mud to roll in. The life of a pig is very busy, you know.
When I stood outside the barn—painted purple, of course, for good luck and good sex, Aunt Lydia had said—I could hear “the ladies” clucking, soft and comfortable, as if they were snoozing.
Then, as if they had a sixth sense and knew I was there and freedom and food were only seconds away, their clucking took a new turn, sounding shrill and strident, as if someone were dropping their bottoms into a pail full of ice and giving them a little shake.
I opened the barn door.
Shocked, I could only stare at what seemed like a million chickens flying out the door, their mellow clucking changing to high-pitched squawking. When one flew at my head, I ducked, stood again, then had to lean to my right to avoid another chicken, then to my left, then back down again.
Chicken after chicken flew out of that barn. I could almost hear their commentary: “Who the hell is that? She didn’t open the door right! Where’s Lydia? What is this barn coming to, when the servants quit?”
When the stampede was over, the ladies settled and pecked at the ground, I ventured into their domain. Lydia had told me the night before where many of the eggs would be. She had painted different bookshelves bright colors and lined them up against the walls or laid them flat against the wood chips and hay. She always put a golf ball on the shelves so the chickens would think they were looking at a real egg and, as she said, feel comfortable about dropping their insides.
The chickens loved it, laying eggs every day. When the chickens were too old and not laying anymore, Lydia gave them away to a group that would send fresh chicken breasts out to women’s shelters and homeless places in the city. She hated sending chickens away and often kept them long after they were good for egg-laying.
On the day her friend Albert brought his truck around to transport the older chickens to the Chicken Slice and Dice business, as she called it, she would always help load the chickens, blowing them kisses, hugging them tightly, then go to bed for the rest of the day and cry and grieve as if she’d given away her best friends.
But the next day, it was business as usual. Did I mention that Aunt Lydia is a hard-core businesswoman?
So I went through the bookshelves and the nests, then looked for the “secret piles,” as Lydia calls them—places where the chickens all like to lay their eggs. Every so often, she’ll find a new “secret pile.”
This, I think, is the ladies’ way of keeping secrets. They all lay their eggs in some nook or cranny—between the bookshelves, behind them, anywhere—and finally Aunt Lydia will find the hoard. Usually there’s about seventy eggs by that time, and even as she’s pulling them out and putting them in her baskets, the ladies will wander over and lay more eggs.
So the secret gig is up, but the ladies know it’s a good place to relieve themselves, so they carry on a bit more.
I heard Aunt Lydia come in the barn.
“Darlin,’ Julia,” she yelled. “Saw the chickens flying at your face a bit ago. Too bad I didn’t have my camera. Now wouldn’t that be dandy? We could win a million dollars on one of those TV shows.”
“The ladies were a little anxious to get out today.”
“The ladies are always
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