Charles and the Chickens

 

Charles liked watching the chickens, even as he hated his mother for getting them. He liked watching them from a lawn chair, which he placed in front of the door to the chicken coop. The coop itself was three sizes too small. There were twenty chickens in a coop built for seven. His mother could not pass up getting all twenty; she never passed up a good deal on the Internet. She had a knack for making unwise decisions.
 

The coop would have to be the size of their whole backyard to accommodate that number of chickens. Charles tried explaining this to his mother, but her plans rarely encompassed anything that resembled common sense, let alone research. In six weeks she would have a different obsession, and the chickens would be gone. Before the chickens, it was parakeets. Last year it was chihuahuas. She even tried cats one year, but found she hated them.
 

Charles really liked these chickens though. They were more interesting than the other animals he watched suffer at the hands of his mother. They were fed mostly table scraps. Occasionally, his mother would mix in some expensive chicken feed, but not very often. His mother reasoned that if they did not eat the food, maggots would appear, and they sure would eat that. Maggots never appeared. Most cruel were the chicken bones his mother threw in. The chickens picked them clean. He didn’t think this was particularly nice, but his mother found it quite humorous.
 

Over spring break, his whole family (mother, father, and sister) were set to visit his aunt and uncle in Houston. Not wanting to go, Charles convinced his mother that twelve was an adequate age for a boy to take care of himself. She did not need much convincing, seeing as she needed someone to feed her chickens.
 

The first few days of his spring break were uneventful. On the third day, Monday, Charles saw that the chickens were relentlessly attacking one of the smaller hens. The victim had an open bloody sore on her rear end. It was like a giant red target that every passing chicken took a shot at.
 

Charles ran into the coop with a broom. He swept away the assailants. Charles stepped back and watched the coop from a distance. After half a minute, the hideous attacks returned. Charles ran in with his broom and repeated the process. After an hour of this, he realized that the chickens would never figure out what he wanted.
 

On Tuesday, Charles noticed that the unfortunate hen was in even worse condition. It hobbled around, falling as it tried to evade her attackers. Her missing feathers were strewn across the floor of the coop. Charles ran in and saved the chicken, kicking the nasty beasts who still pecked at the wound, even as he had her in his arms. He placed the bloody hen in one of his mom’s old over-sized parakeet cages.
 

The next day, a new hen found herself at the bottom of the pecking order. In one day, her condition had rapidly deteriorated. Did they not have enough food? No, they had plenty. Charles decided that the problem was the limiting space of the coop. He grabbed the gate and violently swung it open. He was not angry at the chickens. It was not their fault. He was angry at his mother.
 

The first chicken gingerly stepped through the gate. After that, a flood of feathers flowed out. That Thursday and Friday, the chickens explored the entire expanse of the backyard. They strutted around finding worms and seeds everywhere. The pecking and harassment of the weakest chicken stopped immediately. They were happy, and Charles was finally able to relax and enjoy the last few days of his spring break. He loved watching them explore and stake out new territory.
 

Those birds shit everywhere. Most of the backyard was a stone patio, and they blanketed it with soft white fecal matter. When his mother returned on Saturday and saw this, she was furious. She made Charles scrub every bit of bird poop from the backyard.
 

The chickens returned to their coop, and the pecking started again. His mother eventually tired of chickens and resold most of them. She cooked a couple. He decided he was not hungry that day. Charles still remembers that for two glorious days, it was good to be one of his mother's chickens. Charles was happy he had given them at least that.

​