 Growing up we had a very large backyard. It was the kind of backyard where you could imagine yourself in various locations such as the jungle or the forest, depending on which part of the yard you were in, without ever having to leave the comfort of home. We also had an old chicken coop which was only used when I was very young.
At the age of four you don’t really completely understand the mechanics of things or why things exist. You’re four. You only have to worry about play time, what time it was to eat, and how you could avoid getting a bath. So it was that around this time we had a few chickens living in the old coop in our backyard. We didn’t have any other animals living with us at the time, so I considered the chickens our pets when the neighbor’s cat managed to run away from my grasp.
I didn’t name them exactly, but I considered them to be my friends. They hung out in the yard, I visited them and said hello and avoided the smelly coop while I waited for the next cat to jump into our yard. I did have a favorite chicken, though. She was a pretty white hen who I thought was the best for no particular reason other than she never mistook my hand for a grain of food.
One day while I was in the backyard admiring the chickens and wondering when one the neighbor’s cat might make the mistake of coming into our yard, my mom came out. She asked me to pick out a chicken for her. I, of course, picked my favorite pretty white hen and pointed to her and said, “That one!” After I proudly chose my favorite hen, I left the yard and went inside to play with some toys, oblivious to what would happen next.
After playtime and a nap it was evening and time for dinner. A delicious chicken roast! Why, it was delicious and I liked chicken even though I didn’t know where it came from. I gobbled up my share like a good little girl and did not give it another thought.
The next morning I went out into the yard and noticed that there was one less chicken poking around the coop. My favorite chicken was gone! Where was my favorite pretty white hen? Did she leave in the night to visit her family in the country? Did she move onto to greener pastures with the promise of better chicken feed? Or did perhaps we eat her for dinner last night? Why, oh why, did I give up my friend to my mom? Why didn’t she tell me what she was planning to do! NOOO! Oh, pretty white hen, I mourned you.
Even though my mom cooked up my favorite chicken for dinner one night, it still did not alter my taste for the tender white meat. I still eat chicken to this day and luckily I don’t ever think about my favorite pretty white hen when I do it. Chicken is delicious after all.
Mary and some neighbor's cat
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