tomorrow I cross the ocean

Now the chickens live outside. When I came home from the first PNE workshop, a few Sundays ago, G & Z had finished the coop and the chickens had moved in.

I let them out each morning for an hour or so. It's a nice way to start the day. A little chicken meditation. They hear us coming and fly the coop as soon as the door opens. There's one Barred Rock that usually leaves last, cautiously strutting down the ramp. She's the first to return, too. They all fly a bit, and do a mid-air chest butt. The younger Araucana is the most aggressive. She looks like a little eagle. I think she's a rooster.

My parents had a sweet good-bye barbecue for me last Sunday with the whole fam-damily. It was good to be together. Today I realize how much I will miss being home. So I look forward to returning and am SO EXCITED about this adventure. Yikes!

I leave for Czech Republic tomorrow. So why am I still in my pajamas typing?

on chickens and dogs

The chickens change every day. Their fuzz dissipates like dandelions gone to seed as the rigid spines of their feathers emerge. The Golden Sex-link (whom we call, surprisingly, “Goldie”) is no longer gold. Her feathers are a rich reddish brown, white at her wingtips. “Cana Cana”, or “Big Kuna” as my son calls her, is the sleekest. She is the largest, too, an Aracauna who recognizes my voice and pecks frantically at the chickararium’s plexiglass when I greet them. She is my favorite. I cluck my tongue and coo enough that Bugs, the dog, whines with jealousy.

It is difficult to anthropomorphize chickens. To me, they are obviously the descendants of dinosaurs, a species altogether un-mammalian. They do not smile. Yet they communicate clearly in their chicken ways with which I am increasingly fascinated.

On the other hand, dogs sometimes may as well be human. They surpass humans in human ways and simultaneously they are purely dog—eager to abandon any training-imposed protocol to rub their bodies in shit (perhaps eat it) and indulge other dogly compulsions.

Our dog loves to dig. When we first moved to Wasatch Commons, our cohousing neighborhood, the new development that surrounds our 4.5 acres had not been built. To the north was a huge field overrun with weeds and tall grasses. Bugsy dug a serpentine trench about three inches deep and that would have covered 30 yards if stretched into a straight line. He had exposed some gopher’s home with his nose and his whole body shook with the pursuit. Naturally, he ignored all commands to stop.

I read once that dogs have the equivalent intelligence of a two-year-old child, which seems apt to describe the Bugsy’s emotional consciousness. When I let the Cana perch on my shoulder, her pale gray eye level with mine, he cocks his head and whimpers.