Though Ms. Bonita’s life with me is a good one, she is the only chicken in a world full of dogs and cats and horses. So when one of my clients offered to donate a young hen and rooster to the farm, I gratefully accepted. And that is how Mr. Hermoso – a handsome red and green Banti-mix, replete with feathery claws; and Ms. Blanca – a beautiful pure white Leghorn – came to be a part of Casa de Amigas.
I was so excited for Ms. Bonita. Finally – she would have a family. Unfortunately, my romantic vision of a happily ever after was quickly dashed. Hermoso and Blanca were tight. I learned that they had also endured a lot of bullying by the chickens at their prior residence, so they stuck close together. Though they never picked on Bonita, they turned their backs on her whenever she tried to venture close to them. And they refused to let her have a place on the roost next to them.
My poor little Bonita! I feel a twinge of sadness every time I watch her try to navigate her way closer to the pair, only to be repeatedly rejected. It is clear that she very much wants to be a part of their clan, but she doesn’t have the slightest clue how to do that. How would she? She has spent the majority of her life with a human who knows nothing of chicken etiquette, a dog who wants to eat her, and a cat who believes she is a bird and wants to be Bonita’s sister (that’s a whole other story I will save for another day). No wonder she is so confused!
As I watch Ms. Bonita’s struggle to fit in, memories of moving to a new school and feeling rejected and outcast because I wasn’t like the other kids come flooding back to me. Inclusion had always been an automatic benefit of being my older brother Jay’s little sister. Everybody loved Jay. He was funny and kind and caring. They also knew that if they messed with me, there would be hell to pay. Jay looked out for me.
But one day, in a blind rage fueled by unresolved trauma, intimate betrayal, alcohol, and anti-depressants, my mother killed Jay. And in that moment, my entire world as I had known it, was gone. Detention homes and court trials and jail sentencing were the themes of my new life. And when that was over, my little brother and I were whisked far far away from everything that we knew. We lost our home, our belongings, our family, our school, and our community. Suddenly, I was left to fend for myself in a small town school that was nothing like where I had come from.
While I was desperately trying to make sense of what had happened to my family, I was also trying to learn how to exist in a very small rural town that was nothing like the progressive town I had come from. In my old school, girls were allowed and encouraged to be smart, and to play all of the games the boys played. But in my new school, the rules were very different. Girls were not allowed the privileges of boys. So instead, they vied for social status – clothing, make-up, gossip, passive power plays – to lure the boys with the most power. Meanwhile, the boys were busy learning how to wield their God-given white male power – over each other, the girls, and even the animals.
Needless to say, it was a very lonely and painful transition. How I longed for the security of my life with Jay at my old school. What I would have given for just one supportive adult to teach me how to navigate my new world. But the teachers and playground monitors often looked the other way when bullying and taunting occurred. As long as it didn’t get “too out of control.”
Kids will be kids.
Chickens will be chickens.
Perhaps this is a case of misdirected anthropomorphism. Maybe. But maybe not. But the one thing I know for certain is that I will never again stand by and do nothing when another living being is in danger. Ever. I hadn’t even known that I could stand up in my family. Not that it would have made any difference. And in all likelihood, had I stood up that day and tried to help Jay, I could have been the one who died. But after years of living with survivor’s guilt, I have decided that, when possible, nobody should have to die. But if it comes down to my life or someone else’s, I would rather die a thousand times over than to live with being the one who survived.
One night in desperation, I stealthily attempt to sneak Bonita onto Hermoso and Blanca’s perch after they have gone to sleep. Hermoso awakes with a startled screech that sends Bonita flying in panic.
I try again the next night. This time, Blanca does the fancy side-hip-push maneuver, sending my little Bonita spiraling to the ground. After a few more failed attempts, I finally give in and build Ms. Bonita her own perch on the other side of the coop. At least they aren’t attacking her. And she still gets to share the coop with them. Acceptance and adaptability are sometimes the only non-violent solutions to group dynamics.
But my heart still breaks every time Bonita looks longingly over at Hermoso and Blanca, nestled close together on their perch, while she perches alone.
“We could always order a few more adolescent chickens,” Pat sheepishly suggests one day. “Maybe if we get them closer to her age, they will bond with her.”
“NO!” I answer emphatically. “No more damned mail order chickens! Besides, chickens don’t bond, remember?” I add sarcastically. “We can just get some from the feed store in town.
Pat persists, ignoring my bonding dig. “But mail order is the only way to ensure the chickens are healthy. What if we get a sick chicken from the feed store, and Bonita dies? You would never forgive yourself.”
Damned this life. Everywhere we turn, we are faced with impossible moral dilemmas. Order locally, and risk losing my beloved Bonita. Order through a reputable mail-order chicken company and be assured of healthy chickens, but support the trafficking of chickens. Laugh if you will. But there is a very fine line between morality and convenience. What price are we willing to pay (or allow others to pay) for our safety and security?
“Fine,” I retort in resignation. “Order more damned chickens.” Somehow mail-order adolescents feel slightly better than mail-order baby chicks. Adolescents are more resilient than baby chics at least.
It’s amazing how quickly we seek out the small nuances that justify our actions so that we can live with ourselves and the choices we make.
“None of us is pure,” As Ulinda so aptly stated.
So very true. And it is such a slippery slope once you take that first step.
When the mail order adolescent chickens arrive in their respective boxes, I try to make up for the guilt I feel by giving each of them a special welcome. I pull each one out individually and hold them close to my chest, reassuring them that, now that they are here, they will be safe and well cared for.
But like most jaded adolescents who have begun to realize that the world is not exactly the safe and just place they were initially led to believe it is – they don’t buy it for a second. As soon as I set them down, they run squawking in the opposite direction, looking for a safe place to hide, far away from the crazy chicken lady holding them hostage in this new and foreign land.
This time around, I wasn’t near as naive as I had been with Hermoso and Blanca’s arrival. Once all of the adolescent chickens had been welcomed to the farm, I stepped around the corner of the chicken coop, and waited, squirt bottle in hand.
Chickens will be chickens, after all. And I’ll be damned if my little Bonita is going to be bullied!
Ms. Bonita checks out her new coop-mates with a wary eye. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long for the young hens to figure out that she has a blind side. I watch in amazement as Mattiado (a speckled hen) sidles up to Bonita’s left side, and then suddenly, without warning, attacks, sending my little Bonita fleeing in surprise at this unprovoked (and unseen) aggression.
“There will be no bullying on this farm!” I yell, sending a firm stream of cold water directly into Mattiado’s face. She shakes the water off and glances sideways at the crazy chicken lady before returning to pecking the ground around her as if nothing whatsoever happened.
“Ha!” I say triumphantly, feeling quite righteous.
But after about a week of diligent squirt bottle duty, I realize, much to my dismay, that all of my efforts have only succeeded in teaching the hens to not attack when I am in squirt bottle range. As soon as I turn my back, or walk to the other side of the corral, they are at it again.
So I do the only thing I can think of to do: I buy a baby monitor and install it on the outside of the chicken coop. But not just any baby monitor. I buy the deluxe version. The one that allows me watch the chickens on screen. And to speak, or rather yell, into a microphone as needed.
“Leave Ms. Bonita alone!” I bellow through the monitor. All of the chickens jump at the unexpected sound of my voice, and quickly look around them, forgetting all about bullying Ms. Bonita.
“He he he” I snigger in satisfaction. “I fixed your wagon!”
That’s an expression my grandfather used to say, usually right after he found a way to make sure my little brother and I couldn’t do whatever it was that we were attempting to do. I’ve often wondered about the origins of this expression. Did it come from the days of covered wagons? Does fixing one’s wagon’ mean making it permanently inoperable? Times were hard back then. And resources were scarce. People were not always kind and helpful.
We humans are a lot more like chickens than we would ever want to admit: The hens all vying for position next to the dominant rooster, not hesitating to knock the other hens off the roost in pursuit of the prize; picking at each other’s flaws; going after injured hens that can’t protect themselves. And then there are the roosters: Ruffling their feathers and strutting their stuff around the yard, trying to seduce the hens into sex; and if the strutting and ruffling doesn’t work, they downright force them, and then immediately acting as though nothing happened. It’s all a bit dysfunctional if you ask me.
The baby monitor works great for the weekends. But unfortunately, I have to work. Which means Ms. Bonita will have to fend for herself while I am away.
“You are just going to have to learn how to protect yourself,” I tell Bonita one evening as I pull her close to my chest, soothing her pounding heart. “You have to stand up to them. And you can’t let them have access to your blind side – you are going to have to figure out how to keep your good eye on them at all times,” I say, laughing at my pun.” Ms. Bonita just pecks at my cheek and vibrates in response. I began to worry that maybe all of the comfort and safety and care I have given her since her arrival has actually made her more fragile and susceptible to harm.
“She’s a spoiled little brat,” Pat often chides. “No wonder the other hens pick on her Rox! You need to stop coddling her, and let her learn how to be a chicken!”
“Yes, but she is clearly at a disadvantage. It is not a fair fight.” I say in our defense.
I continue my pep talks with Ms. Bonita. And even though I cannot help but pick her up and comfort her when she comes running to me after an attack, I do my best to put her right back down again into the thick of things. She is going to have to learn how to protect herself, because I cannot be there to protect her every waking moment.
One day, I watch with mama pride as my little Bonita finally stands her ground against one of the offending hens. She fluffs up her golden buffy feathers to make herself look twice her size, and screeches a shrill warning. It works! The offending hen changes direction and acts like she was just charging after a nearby morsel of food instead. Ms. Bonita fluffs her feathers back into place, and I swear I can see a hint of new found confidence in her strut.
Ms. Bonita has also learned to stay on the perimeter of the chicken yard, with her good eye on the flock at all times. And she has learned to be stealthy and quick. Before any of the chickens knew what is happening, Bonita darts in and grabs a piece of food, and then darts quickly back out to the perimeter again. Eventually, Bonita’s tactics work, and after a while, the other hens accept Bonita, and stop picking on her.
“It’s the fire that makes the steel,” My Uncle Bert used to say. “The hotter the fire, the stronger the steel.”
I have always loved this saying. It has helped me stay strong amidst life’s many struggles. Adversity isn’t always a bad thing. Sometimes it can strengthen and deepen us. But too much adversity, especially before we are equipped to handle it, can cause irreparable harm. Just like too little adversity can rob us of the needed opportunities to learn how to protect and defend ourselves. It is the balance that is the key.
My little one-eyed surviving miracle is growing up to be a beautiful and strong young hen. And I am learning how to be a healthy and supportive mama. Not only is Bonita healing, but so am I.
TO BE CONTINUED….