365 Days (Part 1) | ✓

46. Dirty

46. Dirty: Write a poem about getting covered in mud.

"Time to do the chickens, Hannah!" Mom said cheerfully.

As was my custom, I replied with, "I hate chickens."

Ah, the bane of my existence. Chickens. Can I ever expound their numerous evils to you enough? Can I ever adequately explain how atrocious these nefarious creatures are? It is not possible within the limits of the human language.

Three years ago, my mother became aware of the growing trend of backyard chickens. I believe it began when she rushed inside one day from watering the plants and exclaimed, "I can hear chickens clucking!" We, of course, assured her she had finally cracked and was plunging down into the deep pit of insanity, and resumed our lives. She would insist upon the sound existing, and it was I who finally confirmed her theory. As I happened to be outside one day, I too heard a clucking distinctive to chickens. It was determined to emit from the backyard adjacent to ours.

Until that moment, she had not been confronted with the possibility that, in our suburban neighborhood, keeping chickens was allowed. After coming into contact with several more people who also had been duped into the ownership of these evil beings, Mom considered it a sign from God that she too ought to possess her own poultry.

Off we went, then, and purchased six chickens. Six was the minimum. As the salesperson assured us, some of them would die. Our chickens obviously stayed alive to spite us, then.

Even I, who am fully cognizant of their future villainy, admit that a baby chick is a cute animal. The names of them were long debated on. I thought myself quite ingenious in suggesting we simply call them chicken, but in different languages. However, my parents, who had recently become addicted to Downton Abbey, chose to name our six chickens after characters from that show.

That's right. We named our chickens after Downton Abbey characters. The two white ones we called Edith and Sybil. A speckled one was named Mary. The three brown ones were named Mrs. Patmore, O'Brian, and Ethel. I do not watch the show myself, so if I have erred in the spelling of any of those names, I'm sorry.

We kept the chickens in the laundry room until they were old enough to be moved outside. At first, I had little to do with them. Then one day in winter, Mom, their primary caretaker, fell sick. I was usually the one made to do all of the odd jobs around the house, so I went to tend to them. There is a saying that goes, "If you do something right once, you will be asked to do it again."

I must have been a good chicken keeper, because since that day, I have been made to go out daily and tend to their well-being, much to my everlasting chagrin.

There are several reasons why I call chickens spawns of Satan. Firstly, they are not at all friendly. There is a very strict pecking order among them. Once, Mary hurt her foot and limped for qhite a while. The chickens, sensing her weakness, came down upon her. If Mary's foot had not healed, the oher chickens would have pecked her to death. They are also quite stupid. A chicken doesn't meed its head cut off. It's an idiot either way.

Secondly, chickens will eat everything. We had to partition part of our yard to them because they literally consumed all living things within their reach. Their side of the yard is a wasteland: Just dirt and in rain, mud. Chickens will even peck at you, in the off chance you might be edible. They will spend their entire day searching for food.

Thirdly, I must take care of them.

The chicken side of the yard is all dirt and poop. Because it would be ruinous to our normal shoes, there is a special set of flip-flops we put on when making a trip over there. I must wear these shoes every time. Even in rain, snow, sleet -- I must still wear flip-flops. It is the most miserable feeling to be out in legitimately freezing weather with bare feet, breaking ice within their water bucket.

One day, it was the worst. It had rained nonstop for several days. Texas is subject to long, severe droughts, and then will have a period of very heavy rain for a few months. The chicken duties had been stalled for several days, in hopes the weather might clear, but it never did.

So Mom said, "Time to do the chickens!" like there was no activity on earth more desirable than going out into freezing, wet weather to take care of animals you would gladly fry and eat.

But out I went, sloshing through mud. Each step caused the mud to squish up and flow over the flip-flops, staining my feet. I was chilled to the bone, shaking and shivering, and rushed over to the chicken's side, splashing through mud haphazardly.

Their side was even worse, as the only greenery was that which was too high for them to reach. Our backyard is at a slight incline, and at one point the mud was such that my sandal slipped. I flailed, scraped my arm on the nearby coop, but I grasped and held it. Mud, however, had now been flung by the sudden motion of my skidding feet up onto my calf and on my jeans, although I had rolled them up to prevent this. It was on the front, on the back -- plus, my shirt was wet where it had contacted the dripping coop. Not that that really mattered. Rain was falling on me anyway.

The chickens followed me around, squawking maniacally. I don't know what happened to ours chickens, but they never clucked. They made a noise more closely resembling a demented scream.

I still had the water to take care of. After breaking the ice sheeting the top, I poured the rest out. Some drops fell onto my feet and made me shiver. The chickens crowded me, pecking at uncomfortable places. Even if I picked them up and tossed them away, they kept coming back. They thought nothing of stepping on my toes, making imprints of their claws in dirt upon my feet.

After changing their food and grabbing the eggs, I sprinted inside and announced venomously, "I hate chickens!"