Attila the Hen - The Rise (Part 1)

Poultry owners we were not

Urban farmers were we called

Free range chickens did we raise

Happy, they filled our backyard space

If this inspires you to become one

Raze your apartments to a levelled one

Touch the ground, play around

Raise the dust, let grass abound

Get some chickens to live and roost

Gather them eggs, bake and toast

Blue, brow, salmon pink or white

Eggs in the morning, noon or night

They become family like cats and dogs

They cluck and squawk and peck around

They steal your hearts and tuck in their combs

These ladies in feathers, add joy to our homes

Since I was planning to blog in a chronological order, I debated whether to put out a spoiler alert here. And then decided “what the heck!” As an ardent admirer of James Herriot and Peter Mayle for their hilarious tales about unconventional characters, I hoped to write like them someday.

The authors might have confused many readers as to whether it is their autobiography or actually some poppycock. Within their stories are characters veiled, humour in plentiful and the limelight is often on quiet, unassuming folks or those sporting four legs and a tail. And indeed, it made a refreshing change, no doubt.

With specimens within the family providing inspiration by the bushels, I planned to put something together in writing along the same lines. Especially when there was not the nearest threat of defamation. That is how I started the “Paradise’ series a la the poet of fame, Milton. However, when inspiration stares at you and clucks “Tut-tut!” I threw caution to the wind. Also, it said that you need to break an egg to make an omelette.

As a prologue, for those who are not historians or archaeologists among us, I wish to introduce Attila the Hun. According to Wikipedia (my reference bible), he was the ruler of the Huns, a nomadic Eurasian tribe who migrated into Western Europe c. 370 and built up an enormous empire there. “He was a man born into the world to shake the nations, the scourge of all lands, who in some way terrified all mankind”. But let this history lesson neither shake nor terrify you.

It all started six months ago, when me and my family set out on yet another innocent drive into rural Victoria. As always, by keeping close to the suburban fringe and not venturing too far, we prayed to all gods before we set out. Trusting the GPS talking from all our mobile phones, for we actually believed that each one of them came with a different or alternative route, we drove into the hinterland. Not that it actually helped.

We lost our way almost every time, drove in circles or criss-crossed unknown geographies appearing as lost and baleful as the cows in the meadows except that we lacked a bell around our neck. Our anxious screams and throaty yells to find a route back home often beat the cows to retreat into silence. They might not have uttered a “moo” for days, I am quite sure.

An innocent question such as a favourite breed of dog brought five different answers. Naturally! What followed was waxing paeans of their favourite. Temperatures rose in spite of the aircon as we stepped on the threshold of warring. Finally, the matter was put to rest or buried, like the canines love to.

For many days thereafter, hushed whisperings came from behind closed doors. These were largely ignored or written off as I busied myself with my job and home. Little did I know about what was coming. One Sunday morning, I decided to make the most of some quiet moments and curled up on the couch to catch up on some reading.

Shortly, I heard hisses and murmuring threats emanating from the backyard. I decided to step out and investigate. Lo! In the narrow, grassy strip stood a small cubby house with a sloped roof and a tiny enclosure to boot. It reminded me of a mini-sized witch’s cottage like in the fairy tales. A shiny, bronze plate was nailed on its centre, proudly emblazoned “Clucking Hen Palace”. That definitely ruled out an abode for fiery witches or feather-like fairies or even the pixies.

Upon seeing me, hubby dear quickly placed a sizable cardboard box on the ground and looked guiltily at his partner in crime, the junior son. While my daughter timidly hung behind my back, peeking at the mystery box, the older son stood rooted, probably wondering “what was it this time? "

Perhaps, he had an inkling! It might also explain those mysterious whispers for the past several weeks and their slinking away as though on a secret mission. Suddenly, the cardboard flap of the box shot open and a head popped out. It belonged to a bird. No! Do not jump to any hasty conclusions. It was neither an iridescent proud peacock nor a blushing pink flamingo.

Cluck! Cluck! a slightly largish, reddish-brown, rotund hen stared around in confusion, goggle-eyed. It was not the only one. Soon other heads popped out like champagne corks. Grey! White! Even a black one. This one took that cake sporting a crazy, fluffy looking hairdo as though belonging to a bohemian cult.

I would have fainted if I had heard another “Cock-a- doodle-doo!” But nothing happened and I stood there, hands akimbo, silently asking for an explanation. A friendly neighbour was selling his chickens and coop thanks to a pair of Rottweilers he bought recently. The rascally pair ran amuck in his backyard, chasing the birds and even managing to pull a bunch of tail feathers from one of the unfortunate chooks.

The hapless man offered some fresh eggs too as a bonus to sweeten the sale. Unable to resist a bargain, the men trotted off to buy the chickens, coop, eggs and all. Viola! I had become an unwilling owner of four chickens. Like it or not, Izzy, Katie, Snowy and Silky became a part of our family. These were to be our own “little women”.

While the two menfolk catered to their daily needs, I was privy to the “clucks” and “crows”, the flurry of feathers and scratchings, the ladies and their eccentricities from behind the safe haven of the French windows. My daughter was bribed with lollies to be trained to become the next Dirt Girl (like the animated series). The oldest bid adieu to the backyard. Maybe he suffered from an underlying case of Alektorophobia (intense fear of chickens).

That was until one evening when the junior brought home yet another cardboard box. This time the whole family almost fainted. The creature inside looked like a hatchling of a Pterosaur or Pterodactyl. Upon closer examination it turned out to be a chicken of the same reddish-brown family.

Its feathers looked frazzled as though it had got caught in an aircraft propeller but had managed to make a timely exit. Its pink featherless bottom looked unsightly and it ran around its cage in circles as though crazy. I had never heard of a chicken “yowl” until then. And I am telling you, it certainly is not for the faint-hearted.

Junior had fallen for a Facebook advertisement. In the photograph, the chicken looked so forlorn and lost that it would certainly have melted even the hardest of hearts. The owner was moving his house and the new apartment did not let chickens in as pets. It was given away at no cost.

Boxed, the “sleeping” chicken hurriedly changed hands at a train station. “Never wake the sleeping”, it is said. Junior must have sung many lullabies along the two-hour train ride. It had definitely come to a caring home but how much did the Martian chicken care was to be seen.

Next morning, the four feathered ladies walked into a surprise. On their grassy territory sat the new chicken in a wired cage. They stopped with shock at the sight of the visitor and an ugly one to boot. In a blink, the two brown hens in spite of belonging to the family of the same species, declared war and flew at each other. The others, forgetting to preen, watched the duelling pair with their beaks half hung open and with undistilled fear.

It did not matter that one was in the open air and the other behind the bars. They managed to hook their beaks as though in a lip-lock but there was no love lost. It was at that moment I lost my belief in the age old adage “Birds of a feather flock together”. Here, they were almost tearing each other apart amidst blood-curdling squawks and spine-chilling yowls.

Luckily, the narrow cage bars prevented Martian from getting out loose or pulling the plump Izzy into the cage. At some moment they let go of each other. Izzy walked as though in a daze to join the senior hens who had by then sidled into a safe corner. The visitor pranced crazily in its cage, swearing and issuing threats in chicken language. We stood frozen in shock as we watched our first chicken fight and our legs trembled as though we took part in a Spanish corrida de toros (bull running).

All this time junior busied texting the former owner to check whether Tilly, as we had christened the Martian chicken, had any mental health issues and whether it required a psych evaluation for everybody’s well-being. We got to know that Tilly was bought off a van from a traveling farmer and its antecedents were unknown. Such an animal could definitely not contribute to a heart-warming tale. It would certainly inspire Poe to write another blood-curdling spooky story for Tilly seemed to be possessed at this stage.

In a couple of days, when Tilly laid a dirty brown egg that resembled a muddy potato, we were sure that Tilly was actually a dwarf dinosaur. Given the right time, may be Tilly would grow into its colossal dino-proportions and breathe fire on our house and all of us and even wreck havoc in our humble suburb. My spouse revisited his home insurance papers and started to make quiet enquiries in order to protect the home and from public liabilities or litigations.

After a week of caged residence, we finally let Tilly out of her cage. All was well, until the ladies, as usual, strolled in. A flash of red and the next moment Tilly was latched on to Izzy’s forehead. “Squawk! Squawk!” the other chickens flew out of their way. Was it our prayers or divine intervention, I do not know, but Tilly suddenly let go of Izzy and went about pecking and investigating the grassy strip. As though sleep-walking, a thoroughly shaken up Izzy went back to her brood of hens.

Was it a display of chicken hierarchy or brashness of youth, one is not sure. Was it a blow to Izzy’s reputation or a dent to her pride as the brood’s leader? We will never know. Izzy grew subdued as Tilly now stuck to Izzy’s side as though extending a claw for peace and friendship. Was it to rankle Izzy or to declare herself as the next heir? The birds only know.

They remained an odd pair spending time together uneasily. Izzy wary of Tilly and Tilly, cocky, confident, and without a care. It reminded me of the case of a surrendered mother-in-law and a victorious daughter-in-law. Luckily, there was no battered son or spouse sandwiched between them. A rooster son-in-law with issues up his attic was the last thing I wanted in this crazy life.

The rest of the chickens hung around like courtiers, in their marked positions and nowhere close to the brown pair. Tilly made a remarkable recovery with flesh and feathers adding meat to her bony frame. Izzy seemed to be pining and slowly melting away.

Tilly continued to thrill us by laying fresh brown eggs every day. Izzy stopped laying hers. She pecked at her food and remained aloof. We later learnt that chickens do not like sudden shocks. Maybe we should have taken Izzy to a Psych or at least to a chicken whisperer.

In a couple of months, moping Izzy passed away in her sleep. May god bless her soul and may she live happily ever after in Chicken Paradise, if there is one! The brood seemed to realized this bereavement and mourned for a day. They stood leaderless and lost, listless and lacking in comfort.

Then as though woken from a reverie they followed Tilly. Tilly, the ugly scratch of a chicken became the unquestioned leader . She now rules the grass strip and pecks at the older chickens to keep in line or follow in order. We now have nervous Katie, whacky Silky and retired ballerina, jittery Snowy follow silly Tilly everywhere.

However, things did not end there. What scrapes did Tilly get into? What happened to the three grand ol’ dames?? What did Attila the Hun have in common with some Aussie chickens??? More will be shared in the next edition with some such unbelievable tales of feathers and tails.