Sunday, October 15, 2000
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Sunday, October 15, 2000 |
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The saga of Honey and Beauregard By
MARY JANE HOLT
I wonder how many confessions I've made in this column over the past 14 years. It's cheap therapy, this space. Today, it's time to come clean again. It all started when my neighbor, just down the way, who lived in the middle of a pasture, about a quarter of a mile off the road, was preparing to move to Texas. She called me to ask if I knew who might adopt her chickens. No, not right off the top of my head, I said. Lying. I just needed time to work on Daniel. He's a good sport and the most tolerant husband that ever lived. But the chickens were gonna take some persuasion. "Honey, you're crazy," he said. "We've had this conversation before. We've had it ever since we bought the property. We've had it enough. I'm not going to have chickens roaming around my yard. There will be chicken _____ everywhere you step. Chickens are nasty and they stink." It took me a week. I knew I could pull it off. Of course, Guthrie had to give up his dog pen, but we fixed him a nice house under the back porch and he has adapted quite well to his leash. Jack Russells are smart. They know when they've been had. Like husbands. A week to the day after I had set out to convince Daniel he would love fresh eggs, my neighbor brought over Honey and Beauregard. Honey, named for her color, was beautiful and faithfully delivered the daily egg for months. Beauregard was downright striking. I don't know much about roosters, but his primary color is white with black tail feathers and his head and wings are multicolored. A real beauty. For months, we all enjoyed Honey and Beauregard. I say "all"... all, that is, except Guthrie. Guthrie was jealous. He ran circles around that 8 X 10 chicken pen, barking and yelping and telling those birds just what he thought of them. Daniel, however, was sold after the first egg. I'm always right. Then, a month ago, I went out one morning to feed my pets and found Beauregard pacing up and down. Didn't see Honey at first. When I drew close to the pen and caught sight of what was left of her, I disintegrated. Just a feather-covered shell of bones lay there. Of course, feathers were all over the pen too. Beauregard had lost a few as well. Daniel figures it was probably a mink. We've spotted a couple down by the creek. There was no way a bobcat, raccoon or coyote could have gotten into the pen. I cried a lot and couldn't eat for two days. Neither could Beauregard. He was quite tore up emotionally. He crowed more often and paced a lot. I watched for a month. During that time I talked with Daniel repeatedly about giving Beau the run of the place. "He's so lonely now and the pen that once was a love nest has become a prison. He needs to be free." We discussed our options. We both were concerned about Guthrie's reaction. But we thought the two just might become buddies. So after much deliberation, we decided to free Beauregard. We are more than 800 feet off the road so traffic would not be a problem. And he had stood his ground against whatever critter had devoured Honey. Maybe he was a survivor. We'd see. We agreed last Sunday that I would let Beauregard out on Monday morning when I went out to feed him. On Monday around 10 a.m., I called Daniel at Delta. I needed to be assured I could do this thing. Freedom could mean death and I would be a murderer. Daniel had known I couldn't do it. He had let the bird out at 5:15 that morning before he left for work. "Just go out and see if he's still alive," he said. "And if he isn't, you're not the killer." Like that was going to comfort me. I was just as guilty. Beauregard was alive and strutting like he was king of the hill. Guthrie, on the other hand, was not a happy camper. Five days have passed now and he's adjusting, though. Will they ever be buddies? Not hardly, but they are co-existing quite nicely. I don't know if Beau knows how, in setting him free, Daniel and I made him much more accessible to the prowling varmints of the night. All I know is freedom looks mighty good on that bird. And every time I go out the door, he proudly fluffs up his feathers two or three times in a row and makes this strange, soft, guttural noise that sounds like "thaaaaank youuuu." And the chicken ______? Well, watch your step if you stop by.
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