Seven months ago, I left that plow in the field to look for
a job in the town. And I’ll tell you, it
ain’t easy being a cowgirl living in the city.
But there are ways I have attempted to cope with my new city digs in
order to retain my love for all things that grow, live, and feed us.
For starters, I needed to fill our huge terrace with as many
green things as possible. Initially I
thought this would be easy: buy some pots, find some dirt, plant some
seeds. Plants want to grow! The hitch came when I needed to incorporate
my helpful boyfriend and an employee of his parents to carry all that up to our
apartment. Which is on the top floor of
a five story building. (PENTHOUSE! ) After adorning the terrace with multiple
beautiful, heavy clay pots, our real task came when all three of us had to lug
a multi-kilo bag of compost up to the rooftop.
No one was very happy with me that afternoon but our terrace sure came
alive!
I am finding this to be trickier than expected due to the
ever-intense weather that Cotonou nails on us.
In my seven months here I have seen the most stifling heat and the
heaviest rain. These contrasting weather
patterns make for a lack of consistency that my plants do not love. Still, I have been happy trying to keep these
plants alive.
But when it came down to it, fighting for the roots of these
plants has not fulfilled my true cowgirl needs.
I am an animal lover through and through, and my favorite pets are more
commonly found on a farm. I had been
missing my routine morning meetings with the cows, collecting eggs from the
hundred of chickens in the barn. And
sometimes, on the rare day, I longed to bring day-old bread out to those
feisty, mischievous, and ever-growing pigs.
I first indulged my livestock-rearing needs by starting up
an agriculture club at the school that I teach at. Though I’d like to say my lessons in
composting, recycling, and starting a plant nursery were popular, it was my
promise of chicks that drew in most of my loyal members. Searching Cotonou for plain lumber, tools,
and chicken wire was not as easy a feat as I’d like to report. No one understood why a little white lady
wants to use a hammer, never mind letting the children of American diplomats
and NGO workers do physical labor. If
I’ve done nothing else thus far in this country though, it has been to make
sure those hands are not so delicate.
So we built this epic chicken hutchand came upon a Mama hen
and her three chicks. African chickens
look so different from most American chickens you see. Each chick had different patterns and
variegated feathers. Unfortunately, one…then two were
promptly taken by…something. Rat or
human I cannot say. But the mama and the
left-behind have stayed strong and are a man attraction at QSI Benin.
So when my homegirl Sara trucked into town from the bush
with two tiny, motherless chicks I was delighted to grow our school’s chicken
family. The remaining chick at the
school was still young; I figured the mama would philanthropically take in the
two new nuggets. Had I been wiser, I
would have realized that this mama had just lost two chicks and therefore
viewed all creatures in her pen as predators.
And thus, Logan and I welcomed Token and Hawk into our
apartment. I had a tough sell at
first. Logan hadn’t even wanted a pet, forget
pets who are meant to live in coops on farms.
But with the promise of temporariness he obliged and we made our guest
bathroom into a coop. Quickly, the
chicks imprinted on us. When let out of
their tiled home, they were constantly underfoot. Their first use of wings was to fly up onto
the couch to sit with us. They enjoyed
being pet, and it was impossible not to grow fond of them as they climbed up to
cuddle in the crook of my neck, underneath my hair. They were inexpensive to keep, easy to clean up
after, and low-maintenance. When we
were busy for a couple of days, they were fine left with a pile of ground corn
and rice. When Logan was traveling they
became my best company.
Token passed away a couple weeks after he came to us. He had been weak since arrival and though we
tried to fatten him up and keep him clean he never strengthened. We were left with one lonely and squeaky
chick.
As a farmer, I like to think of myself as an animal welfare
advocate. “Animal welfare means ensuring
that all animals used by humans have their basic needs fulfilled in terms of
food, shelter and health, and that they experience no unnecessary suffering in
providing for human needs.” I am an
omnivore and am dependent on cheese for my general happiness, after all. But embarrassingly often my actions reflect the agenda
of the animal rights activists who “view humans and animals as essentially
equal and condemns any and all use of animals for human benefit”( http://www.furcommission.com/welfare/animal-welfare-v-animal-rights/).
Logan and I felt compelled to give Hawk the best life
ever. He got plenty of attention, the
best of our left-overs, and could easily guilt us into “just a few more minutes”
before his bedtime. Which should always
have been at dusk. Unbeknownst to me,
Logan had even begun building a fenced-in area at his parents’ house so that
Hawk could play in the lawn without being nibbled on by Bella, their friendly but
curious yellow lab.
It was on Hawk’s first adventure day in the garden that his
demise came. Bella had a play-date that
day and that dog was more than curious.
Within minutes of being let out into the yard the dog managed to break
through the fence to kill the defenseless bird.
I am not one to root against nature’s carnation, but I sure wish that
this well-fed dog had taken her aggressive play somewhere else.
With a heavy heart, I write this blog for my beloved
Hawk. You were just a chick and you
pooped everywhere, but I will miss your squawking buddy. It will take time to move onto another home
animal husbandry project, but plans are in the work figuring out how to lead a
fresh cow up all those stairs.
