Southern Sampler - by Alma Womack


Till Somebody Loves You


  Once again, my chicken house is empty, and I am chicken-less, and it is not due to the bird flu or the swine flu either. Terrorists struck at Christmas, and the chickens are history.
   These late chickens were the gifts of two poultry-raising friends, Terry Rector of Vicksburg and Larry Crouch of Jonesville. They both had more chickens than they needed a couple of years ago, and they very kindly shared with me since I had not been able to raise any biddies the last several years. The chickens were Dominiques and silver-winged Wyandottes, or something like that. The little hens were very pretty in their feathers of varying sizes of black-and-white dots.
   The rooster was also a Dominique, and he has been mentioned in articles before because he was the worst tempered fowl that I have ever dealt with since I’ve raised chickens. He was one of the Vicksburg chickens, and he just never learned to like me even though I came bearing gifts to the chicken yard every day. He would crow and strut around and run at me every chance he got; and he would jump on me when my back was turned, washing out the scrap bucket. I kicked him away, threw water on him, and walked softly and carried a big stick; and all methods would work for a while. After a few days, though, it would start all over; and I’d have to watch my back, literally.
   Perhaps it was because he had been raised from a biddy to a grown rooster by a man, and he knew that I didn’t fit the bill. Maybe it was my wind-blown, curly hair that set him off; maybe he didn’t like my hand lotion. I never did find out, but we were very cautious around each other.
   Anyway, Christmas morning, while I was making the roux for the duck gumbo we were going to enjoy for Christmas dinner, Liza came running into the kitchen with the dread news: “Emma, all of your chickens are dead! The wind last night blew the gate open, and there are dead chickens all over the yard!” I didn’t have to guess what had happened.
   The dog pack that lives here had lost a member earlier in the month when I had to ease away my sweet Annabelle, the largest chocolate lab in Catahoula Parish. Annabelle had a disease that Dr. Bobby Field and I couldn’t defeat, so Annabelle was laid to rest on the twenty-first of December. I had already been in mourning since then; for she was one of my favorites and was a most faithful companion, never leaving my side when I was in the yard. She loved to ride in the club car and made every trip that the car made, no matter who was driving. She was such a sweet-natured girl, and losing her put another hole in my heart.
   Annabelle’s sister, Isabelle is my only chocolate lab now. She is joined by the mastiff, Rocco; EmmyLou and Peanut, the throwaways; and Bob, who just appeared here one day and decided to stay. Bob is the one who killed my cat Pandora, shortly after he arrived here, and was forever killing something: armadillos, possums, rats, snakes, all legitimate targets. He would always look longingly at the chickens when I went to feed every day, but he would not cross me when I shook my finger and said NO to him.
   I just have all ideas that he was the leader in the chicken massacre, followed closely by Isabelle and EmmyLou, who is part lab. Peanut would have chased the chickens but not have tried to kill them. Rocco would most likely stand and watch since chasing anything smaller than a deer requires far more dexterity than he is capable of. It probably didn’t take long to do their damage, but it was all over before any of us knew anything was amiss.
   After the dread news was delivered, Holly and her husband, Coty, volunteered to clean up the scene of carnage since not only was I cooking Christmas gumbo but I was also in the throes of walking pneumonia and didn’t need to be running around out in the cold. They were very efficient in their work; and they were aided by Liza, who refused to touch the dead chickens but was willing to help scout out the scene of the crime.
   I have not been to the chicken house since Christmas Eve when I fed the chickens for what would prove to be the last time. There were only six little hens, but I would get two to three eggs every day, enough for me to use in my weekly cooking. They always ate the kitchen scraps such as potato peelings, lettuce leaves, and anything else that people or dogs wouldn’t eat. Now, I have to throw those scraps out in the field behind the house and hope that the murdering dogs don’t drag half of it back into the yard.
   Son-in-law Aaron has made it his goal to find some more chickens for me, and he has a good lead that Charlie Duck of Wildsville may be willing to send a few my way. Once I am over this pneumonia misery, I will check out the chicken yard and see if any repairs need to be made before the new chickens arrive so that the chicken house will have to blow away before any more chickens are able to escape into what will be certain death outside the chicken yard.
  I am really sorry to have such a sad story for this month, but the story is true; and I guess a person can love chickens, too, especially when they are defenseless and clueless to danger.
   By the way, another puppy has arrived via some wretch who threw her out; Woodrow has named her Mouse. Though she will never be another Annabelle, size wise, she is clever and playful and oh so grateful to have a home and bed and food twice a day; and Woodrow likes her because she is much more his size. And if Woodrow is happy, everyone else has to get in line and be happy, too.
  Happy March; and remember, as good ole Dean Martin used to sing, “You’re Nobody Till Somebody Loves You,” even if that somebody is a dog or a chicken.