On Chickens, Among Other Animals

I will not go into the chicken farming business.

I keep telling myself that I won’t go into the chicken farming business.

“But your uncle, and your uncle’s uncle, and your uncle’s uncle’s uncle — they were all so proficient in the avian arts!” I hear my mother say, while fixing a dinner of, you guessed it, chicken.

I am fully aware of my family’s legacy, and I reject it. It’s just not for me. 

“But you could ride on the wave that your family has created — and then your nephew could go into the same business! It's practically a family tradition!” My grandmother says condescendingly while plucking a, you guessed it, chicken.

I’m not like my relatives. I want to be something else, not simply live the comfortable life that’s been laid out for me. Or, maybe I do want a comfortable life. Just not that one. 

Yeah, that sounds about right. A rather different, yet still comfortable life.

Besides, why would I brave the risks of retrieving the chickens, anyway? 

(What my female relatives fail to mention is that my great uncle lost an ear while poaching a bird, and my grandfather’s brief foray into chicken farming was terminated when he received a nasty dog bite from a guard dog.)

I guess I just don’t have the stomach for it. 

I mean, I never really liked chicken that much anyway.

Not to mention, the other chicken farmers never really liked us that much, either. Apparently, my family’s reputation as the best chicken farmers in our borough… well, let’s just say, the bigger competition doesn’t really appreciate that.

I think it’s quite a shame. 

But none of that really matters, because I’m not going to be a chicken farmer.

My father likes to think that I’ll “come around sometime soon,” because one would have to be crazy to not want to be a chicken farmer.

My father says that he would’ve gone into the business had his brother not done so.

I tell them, why not let my sisters be the chicken farmers this generation? They’re just as capable as I am, if not more. Definitely more.

“But it’s tradition, sweetie,” My aunt pats me on the head, “Don’t be a—“ you guessed it— “chicken!”

The thing is, I’m not that afraid. I have confidence in my abilities to be a chicken farmer, just like my uncles. I simply feel bad about it.

So, I have a confession to make. Maybe I wasn’t completely honest when I described our profession. I wouldn’t normally bend the truth, but I guess my family is rubbing off on me a bit. And I don’t know you very well.

Don’t get my uncles in trouble, okay? 

But I’ll explain.

See, we’re a little bit… incapable of actually cultivating the chickens ourselves. 

One could call us burglars. We borrow the chickens for a bit. And then don’t give them back. 

Why am I saying, “we?” I mean my family. Not me. I’m not going to do that. I’ve never done that. I’ve always stayed on the right side of the law.

And that is why I will never be a chicken farmer.

And there’s also the feathers. They get everywhere. On your head, in your mouth, everywhere, I tell you. My uncle brings them home and they get everywhere.

The others don’t seem to mind, but I think I might have allergies.

I tell them that I’m simply chicken-averse! 

“Oh, you’ll grow out of it,” My mom laughs and gives me a nice scratch behind the ears, “Nobody I know has a chicken feather allergy!”

Frankly, I’m fed up with them making fun of me.

They simply do not understand. 

I’m not like them.

Maybe it’s because I’m adopted. I know, it’s rare for people to adopt someone so different from them, but thankfully, my parents did so. 

They found me in a hollow tree, apparently when they were searching for one of their kids. I know I would’ve died had they not taken me in.

But I can’t help but feel a little alienated.

It’s alright though. They’ve clothed me and given me a roof over my head and fed me, you guessed it, lots of chicken. And I still love them, despite our differences.

But I will not be a chicken farmer, never, not now and not when I grow up.

In order to entice me, my dad tells a story about how he and his brother once went off to the nearest pen of chickens and began purloining them. He speaks about it as though it was the most important occasion in his life. He describes in detail slipping under the electric fence, risking certain death if they caused a stir. All my siblings are instantly enraptured. Me, not so much.

Then, when I ask how he lost his tail, he lets out a small, sheepish laugh and leaves the room as quickly as he can, muttering something about how he has to debone the, you guessed it, chicken.

But it doesn’t matter what they tell me.

I know that I don’t have the right teeth for it, and I’m too small. It’s just how it works. 

I don’t enjoy a life of crime.

They even tried to bring me along once. I could barely even keep up with my uncle, my stubby little legs buckling under the pressure. I kept shaking so hard that I couldn’t make it past the first fence. 

“It’s alright, you’ll get better! Practice, Hedgie, practice!” My uncle said cheerfully, but I could see the disappointment in his eyes, and the shame in his ears, tilted askew.

I turned back that day, never to go back to any sort of chicken farm. 

I will never enter the field of bird cultivation, literally or figuratively. 

I want to live a cozy life in the woods.

My family simply doesn’t understand.

But I guess you can’t blame them.

I’m a hedgehog growing up in a family of foxes, what would you expect?