Some of us are city people. I'm not saying this with any sort of pride. In fact, I was watching a video of “city kids vs. town kids,” and I was embarrassed on behalf of all of us who can recognise commercial brands but not trees. Shameful.
When I was very young and was asked what I wanted to be, I used to say “I want to be farmer and writer.” That was just a phase; I also said “firefighter and writer” or “teacher and writer.” For a while, I even wanted to be the owner of a birds-of-prey rescue. And a writer. I think something in me knew that writing is not a full-time job, and by that, I obviously mean a full-time salary.
It is really weird that I wanted to be a farmer because I am not particularly an animal person, I am definitely not a mud person, and in general, I like to be indoors and cosy, not outdoors and surrounded by shite. But hey, that’s me. I don’t really know what I thought being a farmer involved back in the day when I lived in Madrid, 5 minutes away from the subway, where the view from my kitchen window was a mall. If we’re honest, I think by then most pigs and cows I had ever seen were cartoon ones and probably could speak.
You will understand now why it is with nothing but surprise that I am announcing to you today that I am the proud owner of four chickens: Turuleca, Bluebell, Aquarius, and Cupcake. If we are completely honest, I am only the owner of Turuleca, because we agreed to have one each, but allow me the audacity to claim ownership of the four, suspecting, as I am, that most of the responsibilities (except picking up the eggs, because that part is fun) are going to fall on me.
I find myself randomly excited about this; I can’t believe I am one of those people. How very Instagrammable and trendy of me. A sort of feminist trad wife, because you can hate men (#notallmen) and clean poultry shit. Who said it was one or the other? I am now at one with nature. Still unable to recognise trees but with 25 kgs of animal food in my shed. (Speaking of which, please remind me to tell you one day about my obsession with buying large amounts of things to benefit from volume discounts. I will call the post “Why I Have 300 Mika and Lolo Yo-yos in My Attic and Other Stories.”)
I am also feeling something almost maternal about the hens. By that, I mean that my anxiety plays a small video of them being devoured by a fox the same way I used to imagine one of my babies falling down the stairs. Is this love? A little red light in your head reminding you that you are responsible for something or someone? I am afraid, though, that I have a very similar laid-back parenting style with the hens, so as much as I am irrationally worried about the fox, I won’t actually get out of the house, put on my wellies (yes, I wear wellies because #feministradwives are stylish), and check on them. Not with this rain. I mean, if a fox has eaten them, there is nothing I can do about it now, so what is even the point of abandoning the comfort of my slippers?
I can’t tell you much about their personalities yet, or if having chickens has impacted our family dynamics, moods, or approach to the world. We bought them yesterday. What I can tell you is that we are so keen on having a rapport with them that we are making up similarities. “Mine is very fast, just like me,” says Nora, convincing herself that her chicken is some sort of speed prodigy. We nod enthusiastically. “Mine replies when I whistle; she talks a lot, just like me,” and again we all agree that Turuleca is actually responding to me and my whistles in what seems to us a beautiful story of two souls understanding each other beyond words. “Mine does nothing!” says Eric angrily, who insisted on buying the most expensive one because it lays blue eggs. But that is not true; Aquarius gets angry at you if you tell her what to do and seems to think that she knows better (I am not saying she doesn’t considering we know literally nothing). Chris’s one, Bluebell, is gorgeous. I hate making it all about looks, but she is. I hope she doesn’t feel objectified. She is also the smallest, which is great because Chris is way taller than me, and at least for now, the kids.
Yesterday, the first night with them, we tried to put them in the house because we heard somewhere it’s important. Then I checked with my friend Alex, and she wasn’t sure why but also seemed to also think it is. Fine, I said to myself, even if, to be honest, that is not quite my style of laid-back parenting/farming - I would advocate for leaving the door open and trusting them. But we heard the advice and couldn’t unheard it, and we are city people, and what the hell do we know, so we went with the it. How much I wish we had recorded it. I promise you that I would have shared a highlight of the best moments here. It took us more than 20 minutes; we were terrified of grabbing them, and they were as confused as we were about what was going on. Nora left the door open, and one of them (mine, while I am bragging about free spirit soulmates) left the run and walked around in the garden. It took us a while to drag her back in. Chris ended up asking us all to leave the poor hens (and the poor him) in peace, and he did it all by himself while the three of us laughed, cheered him on, and suffered in equal measure from outside the run. I wish you had seen us. So happy. So embarrassing.
But we will get there. One day it won’t be super exciting to open their house in the morning, as it was today; we won’t have to wait for the four of us to be ready, risking arriving late to school because none of us want to miss it. One day we won’t have to budget 30 minutes every night for the tasks, and who knows, we might all perfect the art of holding them, maybe even petting them. All that, and much more, is ahead of us, but in the meantime, I can say almost without lying that I am a farmer and a writer. And if you ask me, that is pretty damn cool.
PS. I wrote that just after buying the chickens, we have had them now for 2 weeks and things are already different. They go to the house alone every night and we just have to close the door! Would that have happened anyway? probably! but nobody can’t take away those memories of the first days, or the relief when we no longer had to do it. I get them out of the coop and they walk freely in the garden, by they are not very brave or adventurous yet. They are outside now while I am writing and I peek and check on them from my work desk. Farmer indeed.
Congratulations! It is a fun adventure! 🥳
I once came across a book called "Zen and the Art of raising chickens" - might be a fun read for a new chicken owner 😊
This is brilliant! We have the two goats which are comparatively easier- I don't have to worry about foxes taking them (which is one of the reasons I haven't taken the leap into getting hens yet), however when they escape from their field, I cannot carry them back in. Swings and roundabouts! My mother often remarks that no one (including myself) ever saw me rearing goats. It was the aisles of Woolworths I was raised!