A Chicken in Every Guestroom

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.