Chickens Shouldn't Use Cell Phones

So I think I may have mentioned that Pocket Square Farm's four chickens are living in a cardboard, two-bedroom condo... in our dining room.

Yes, this repulses me a little.

You see, we originally planned to keep them in the garage. But then we brought them home. They were so cute! So small! We simply couldn't banish them to the concrete floor and chaotic clutter of our detached, single-car garage--where they might freeze overnight and we would never see them.

Thus, the livestock in the living area.

Generally speaking, the pullets are not much of a nuisance. Their home fits squarely into one corner of the room. Chicks peep but are relatively quiet. They even sleep at night (much better than my own children, I might add). And as long as I change their bedding every other day, there is virtually no odor. I think it's just the thought of having live chickens in the dining area that makes me a little queasy. Especially at dinner time. When we're eating chicken soup. Or chicken stir fry. Or, on occasion, chicken nuggets.

It doesn't seem to bother anyone else that we may be consuming some distant cousins of our new poultry pets... but I can tell you that with the addition of our four new family members I have also added more vegetarian (or at least chicken-less) dishes into my family's weekly menu.

But there I go on another birdwalk. Because I really wanted to tell you about the cell phone.

Seeing as how our chicken condo is an open cardboard box in our family's living area, I sat my children down on the couch right away when we brought the pullets home and gave them their first (of many) chicken lectures. And I am a very good lecturer. Just ask my husband.

"You have to be very, very careful [kids] that you don't accidentally drop [throw, hurtle, toss] any toys into the chickens' home. They could pick it up, thinking it's food, and choke on it. And if a chicken is choking it could very well die. We don't want any of our baby chickens to die, do we?"

"When I say you may not drop anything into their home, that means NOTHING--but especially small items: no Legos, no Barbie heels, no My Little Pony hair brushes, no Japanese erasers, and no gems from the Snow White and the Seven Dwarves mine set. Got it?"

Of course, they both shook their heads, wide-eyed, and agreed to the logic of my argument (which they probably forgot about immediately, as children often do). Mason and Camille scampered off to play.

In the end, they weren't the ones I needed to worry about.

A few days passed without "hencident" and then, one evening while I was folding laundry in the bedroom, I was startled by a sudden chirping/squaking/screaming symphony of noise bursting from the cardboard box. Were the pullets fighting, flying, dying? I sprinted down the hallway, expecting the worst.

And when I arrived at the scene? Well, what was going on looked a lot like a childish, fast-paced playground game of tag or keep-away. One pullet had something small and plastic in her beak and was running around in circles as fast as her little legs could carry her; the three other pullets were chasing her (and peeping) as fast and as loudly as they could, pecking at her tailfeathers all the while. Within seconds, the first hen had dropped the small item, another hen picked it up, and the rest of them turned to chase her around in circles in the opposite direction. What were they fighting over? I couldn't quite tell, but I was fearful that one of them may try to eat it if she could only get it away from the others.

I reached in, grabbed the pullet in the lead, and pried the tiny, clear, rubber oval from her tightly-clenched beak, returning her, disappointed, to her home.

"What is this?" I wondered. "Mason, Camille--come here!"

But when they appeared, first one, then the other, it was apparent by the looks on their faces that they didn't know what it was, either. And that left only one other person to ask.

"Hey, that's the ear piece to my cell phone head set!" exclaimed my husband. "Where'd you get that?" he asked.

"The question is... where did the chickens get it?" I responded.

My husband, of course, denies any responsibility in the incident, and because I do love him, I'll let this one go.

At least I know that if another small foreign object should ever "fall" into the chicken condo, I'll know immediately by all of the ruckus!

And I can certainly, definitely proclaim that chickens shouldn't use cell phones.