Chicken Fights

          I have never particularly liked chickens much.  However, I have never stopped to think whether or not these feathered creatures liked me…until now.  With my new family came a rooster (ugly fellow), 3 hens, and a duck.  The duck is fine, it stays in its little-fenced area (against her will), the rooster and one of the hens have recently been cooped together—forced procreation?—and haven’t been free ranging the yard recently, that also works well for me.  That leaves two more hens, and I think that the privilege to roam the land unharmed and unbothered has gone to their tiny heads.  I have witnessed these little hens scurry away at the sound of a pssshhht pshhht from my 4-year-old host sister, they have jumped and ran away from the casual steps of my host mom, and have cleared the pathway for my 7-year-old sister. I see that it is possible for humans and beasts to live side by side in harmony.  In fact, we have a great arrangement with these little ladies, in exchange for not boiling them in my soup, like the 600 chickens I have most likely already eaten here in Peru, they offer us their delicious eggs.  There is some sort of mutual respect between the Fernandez-Montes family and these hens.

              However, I spent the majority of this passed weekend home alone, well with the chickens.  Saturday I took on the chore of laundry.  My first load since I have arrived, one month’s worth of dirty clothes, towels, and sheets.  You can bet this was going to be an all day affair.  A long day it was, I would say 4 hours of washing and scrubbing, but by hour 3 less scrubbing and more soaking.  Things were going well; the chickens were near, but not entering my personal space.  There were a few instances when I tried the pssshhtt and flung a little water at them; needless to say, they didn’t budge.  Not a problem really, they weren’t pecking out my eyes or anything. So, I let them do their business, and I thought that perhaps we had bonded and that I had earned their respect.  As I set out on Sunday to do the weeks worth of dishes in the trench in the back; I soon realized there was no respect of friendship gained.  I don’t know if it was the smell of 3-day-old fish or the muddy waste in the water way that made them so adamant about invading my space, but rest assured that they did.

            First of all, I was trying to protect them, they were eating this old food soaked in dish soap from a dirty ravine. I mean I eat your eggs.  However, they seemingly assumed that I was withholding something great from them.  I see them scurry over to the pen with the rooster, he starts cock-a-doodle-doing, and to my frantic eye it looks like they are trying to break him loose. Two little hens…I think I could take them if it came down to it.  I had my broom nearby, but an enraged rooster…I have heard stories. However, to my relief, the rooster stayed put and the hens wandered away—for the time being.  I go inside for a second to play some music, I go back out, those little fuckers are in the kitchen.  The kitchen is a separate room off the court-yard, if you will, in the back.  It is long and narrow, not an ideal space for shooing chickens let me assure you.  It is no more than 5 ft wide, with the table protruding from one wall and a bench the other, that leaves about a foot and a half of space to herd these chicks back outside.  I grab my broom, squeeze myself in the only available space, and I jab at them.  One FREAKS out, flaps and squawks as she frantically runs past.  In the midst of the chaos, the second one turns, looks to the door, and makes a run for it.  She is in such a panic, with her beefy wings flapping that she slips.  I thought at this point she was just gonna stand up, compose herself, turn her head, stare at me with her beety eye, and then she would surly attack.  Quick on my feet, I gave and intimidating pssshtt and she headed for the door.  I thought that for sure they would go conspire in the bushes on the best way to assault me and win the battle. 

With the kitchen door now closed, I set to work, hurrying through the stack of dishes.  Kitchen door closed, yes.  Living room door closed, no.  Obviously those poultry dishes jumped at the opportunity.  They go inside for what must have been 30 seconds, take a crap and stand their waiting for me.  Just taunting me; I knew it.  Luckily the living room is more spacious, all I had to do was round the corner of the dining room table and hurry them out.  Outside, across the stream of dish soap and water we just look at each other. There is this strange guttural sound that they will make now and again.  They will be going along fine with the occasional non-threatening cluck, but then I will catch their eye, they’ll open their beaks and make this terrifying sound—no doubt directed at me.  The way they look at you from the side of their head is irritating and sends a certain fear through my body; this really allows you to look deep into that one eye.  I don’t care for it.

I finish the dishes, go to the bathroom to wash my hands, and head for my room.  My hours in the sun and days without another living soul might be exaggerating this battle, but outside of my bedroom door lay three piles of chicken shit, two fresh, one toasted by the hot midday sun.  So, I didn’t like chickens before, and now I know that they don’t care much for me either.  And now, before I step outside any door in my house I look both ways and try to locate the hens.  I know they are planning something.