I’ve been a skeptic about our chickens ever since the idea was first introduced by Louis de Ludovico and my skepticism turned to hatred when they initially attacked me. Since then the chickens and I have gone through a glastnost into an uneasy detente I felt like I would have been the 6th or at best 4th person in the compound chosen to take care of them, (for the record, Turd Verdeson is the one they seem to love the most) yet here I am, holding a bag of chicken feed as they stare up at me.
Man has long tried to use animals to help them understand their own world and the potential of the future. I’m well versed in the legend of the German Octopus Paul who had an 85% record at predicting outcomes during the 2010 World Cup, but Octopi are geniuses who have long memories and solve complex problems. They can contort and shrink their bodies into tiny spaces as long as their beak can fit through and can escape in ways those penguins from the Madagascar movies can’t even dream of.
Chickens on the other hand, determine social structure solely on pecking, and because of their inherently violent nature have to wear red tinted glasses so they don’t kill any other chickens who bleed in front of them.
The one thing chickens do have on an octopus? They’re delicious and much easier to cook. So when I was tasked with “taking care of the chickens wink” as Louis put it (and yes onomatopoeiatically he said wink). My mind went only to one place: a smoked chicken meal upon his return.
One of the keys to having a delicious smoked chicken is that the chickens need to be at a specific weight, and it’s even better in a multiple chicken situation such as this one that they all be at an even weight. Unfortunately these chickens, despite Louis’ best efforts, all have dramatically different weights and I needed to quickly regulate them if his first day back at the compound from the conference is going to involve a smoked chicken dinner as he was clearly requesting when he told me to take care of the chickens. I separated them out so that Rodney could trim down and Wolffie could gain weight (San Julius is a perfect middle ground). Each chicken is in their own coop now, where Rodney and San Julius watch as Wolffie eats as much as that little chicken can.
As the chicken ate the cracked corn, whole wheat and soy, I looked over at the other two as they looked at me. The jealousy was clear on their little faces. “You shouldn’t have pecked me you Popeye’s rejects,” I said back to them.
Then, in a display I was not expecting, Rodney clucked twice, looking at San Julius, who nodded in silent agreement.
El FC 0, LAFC 2