With little gardening going on during the bleak winter months, I thought it would be a good time to tell my chicken story.

My Dr. Doolittle of a daughter often called me with her hilarious “farm” adventures concerning her many goats, chickens and handsome (her words) turkey. Apparently I thought out-loud that having fresh eggs would be a great luxury because on my last birthday I received a peeping shoe-box containing a tiny, yellow chick. I quickly named her Omelet and off we were on a new animal adventure. My handy with a hammer husband immediately got to work on a chicken coop. He built the greatest chicken tractor ever made out of an old wood pallet. I began dreaming of the egg delicacies I would soon bestow upon my grateful family.

Over the weeks that followed I slowly built up my chicken social skills until Omelet was climbing onto my lap with her ugly, little chicken feet. (a chicken info nugget- chicken feet are quite warm and chickens mutter when they are content.) Soon anytime I sat down Omelet would fly onto my lap and if I was working out in the garden she followed behind, quickly running up and standing no more than 3 inches away from my heels. If she heard me in the house she would wait by the sliding door and peer inside, glaring at me in her one-eyed chicken way, jerking her head left to right. All this was starting to creep me out, she didn’t do this to the rest of the family and whenever I mentioned this to them they gave me that look they sometimes give me. When Omelet hung out with my husband in the garage she didn’t bother him.

“Man up, Mom, what could a small chicken possibly do to a grown woman?” my son said, scolding me into reality. It seemed like a conspiracy as only I had observed Omelet repeatedly hiding in bushes and rushing out to scare off visiting blue jays. Even Tony the cat was keeping his distance as Omelet grew bigger and more aggressive every day. I dreaded feeding time and often enlisted my husband’s help in getting her into the coop every night. A neighbor flagged me down to tell her story of innocently wandering over into my yard to explore a strange bird in my bushes, only to be abruptly chased off by Omelet. She had to jump into her daughters car for safety. Things were becoming dangerous and I was getting suspicious of this crazy chicken behavior.

Then one fateful morning, my cup of coffee was interrupted by a distinct “cock-a-doodle-do” My dreams of dazzling fresh egg concoctions fading, I waited and then another rooster call filled the air. I knew it, she is a he!  I immediately called my daughter, making good on her return policy and the next weekend I fashioned a travel coop out of 2 laundry baskets and some bungee cords. Omelet quietly muttered in the back seat for the ride to his new home on the farm.

- Regina Maher