Chickened Out

Sam—short for Samhain, not Samuel, the irony of which was not lost on himself or his family—worked as a software engineer in the suburbs. His position was uniquely suited to him for two reasons: he enjoyed the clarity of numbers and the complexity of problem solving, and he preferred to avoid all human contact, which was exponentially easier to do when he rarely left home. 

Though his parents had raised him to be a risk-taker, Sam favored a quieter life glimpsed through the all-seeing window of his computer screen. It didn’t bother him that he couldn’t remember the name of his neighbors of ten years, that his last relationship was over a dozen years ago, or that he’d never been abroad in his adult life. Despite his fears, Sam was content, and had stopped trying to address his plethora of phobias.

Because it would have been one thing if his fears ended at social anxiety, but Sam collected phobias like mosquitoes drawn to an abandoned pond. Amaxophobia, arachnophobia, entomophobia, nyctophobia, telephonophobia… the list went on. 

To cope with his exhaustive list of fears, Sam became a creature of routine. He worked from nine-to-five, then ordered takeout or whipped something up in his kitchen from delivered groceries. In the evening, he watched TV or read before falling asleep in a room bejeweled with nightlights. Occasionally, he woke at 5 AM to go for a jog or, more rarely, ride his bike in sweet, silent solitude. 

A blissful bike ride was exactly what he sought when he woke at 4 AM on an exceptionally eventful Saturday. Sam hadn’t intended to be the unwilling victim of any events and had risen earlier than usual to avoid the weekend’s activities.

As usual, it took him 20 minutes to dress in protective clothing for his ride: a helmet, a sturdy jacket and pants, elbow pads, knee pads, and a pair of heavy steel-toed boots.

On his way out, the sight of his long-neglected car reminded him to call the mobile mechanic—he didn’t want to be caught in a bind without a working car, even if he rarely used it—but the thought of inviting someone to his home for more than a delivery made sweat bead along his neck. Or perhaps it was all the clothing he was wearing in the burgeoning August heat? 

Sam’s usual bike safety check took him another 15 minutes before he slid his two liter water bottle into the custom bottle holder and placed his emergency kit in the basket. Then, gathering his courage, he set out onto the black expanse of pavement, dimly lit by the first hints of sun gilding the navy sky in peach and pink hues.

There were no cars on the road this early in the morning, and Sam fell into a peaceful rhythm. A faint, sweat-slicked smile came to his lips as he took in the fragrance of spruce and pine that hedged the path, the petrichor wafting from the grass beneath them, and the acrid smell of left-out garbage. He didn’t enjoy the latter, but it was familiar. To Sam, familiarity was the blanket that insulated him from the blizzard raging outside. He didn’t care if it smelled.

Like every other time he took this path, a putrid stench interrupted this string of mostly pleasant smells. That miasma of old compost and fresh sewage overwhelmed his senses, causing his eyes to water and his stomach to heave. He was a creature of routine, and would never veer from his chosen path, no matter its flaws. Instead, as he always did, Sam clamped his mouth shut and tried not to breathe for the Stretch of Stench. Sometimes he succeeded in this, but in the heat of this day, he failed. He was so focused on trying not to hurl up his breakfast that he nearly ran her over.

Instead, he veered around her at the last minute, nearly falling from his bike. He was just about ready to yell at someone (or glare, given his fear of conflict) when he realized he was alone. Well, not alone. The delicate, broken creature he’d almost flattened gazed up at him with half-closed eyes.

She—he was fairly certain that she was a she—had a clearly broken wing and an angry wound in her side that painted red streaks into her brown and white feathers. She was panting, her peach-colored beak open as her throat pulsed, lifting and lowering pale pink wattles.

Sam had never met a chicken before, and though he had a mild case of ornithophobia, he felt only a growing sense of unease at her distress.

“Hello,” he said, unsure how to introduce himself to a chicken.

When she didn’t reply, he continued, “You don’t look very well. Who’s responsible for you?” 

Again, she didn’t reply. Sam scanned their surroundings in search of her owners, but the streets were empty. How long would she last out here on her own, bleeding and broken? A sickening feeling roiled his gut: he might be her only hope. Taking a deep breath that he swiftly regretted—they were still in the Stretch of Stench—he took out his phone and searched for the nearest vet. His hand trembled and sweat dripped from his forehead to blur his vision as he scrolled through to the emergency vet… and hesitated. The vet’s office was too far away to bike. He would have to drive. His car. That hadn’t been serviced in over two years and had been sitting in all manner of weather, unattended and unsheltered. His airways shriveled at the idea of driving that Death-mobile. He scanned the list again, hopeful for a vet’s office that was open at this early hour and within biking distance. 

Nothing.

He looked at the chicken. Her eyes were closed now, her breathing still labored.

With a resolve he hadn’t felt since the last time he phoned a restaurant to correct a wrong delivery, he clicked CALL.

“Fuzzy Friends 24-hour Veterinary Services. How can I help you?” said the receptionist on the phone.

“Yes. Hello. I have a fuzzy friend here. Well,”—he side-stepped to get a better look at her—“her bottom is, at least. Does that qualify her?"

“That’s not—what kind of animal do you have?"

“A chicken, do you service chickens?”

“No, I'm afraid we don't treat chickens—”

“Of course. Treat. Sorry,” he exhaled. “Stupid mistake,” he admonished himself, looking abashedly at the chicken.

“That’s okay.”

“Oh no, I was talking to the chicken,” he corrected. “Don't suppose there are any chicken vets around?”

“You’ll have to contact Extraordinary Exotics Vet Hospital. We don’t—”

Sam hung up, too eager to get off the phone. The chicken was deteriorating quickly, and his nerves were so jumbled that, for once, they spurred him into action. He pulled out the emergency kit from his bike’s basket and rifled through its contents. He’d never taken chicken first aid, and the sheer quantity of items in the kit overwhelmed him. Instead, he wrapped her up in the emergency blanket and placed her in the basket. She was too weak to protest, and his heart wrenched before pumping adrenaline into his veins. He got back on his bike, took one last look around, and peddled home like he’d forgotten to turn off the stove and his home could blow up any second.

He arrived back frantic. The chicken—Henrietta—was not doing well. She was breathing, but not much else. His bike clattered to the ground as he picked up Henrietta and placed her in the passenger seat of his hatchback, then slid into the driver’s seat himself. He turned on the car, cringing at the engine’s strain, typed in “Extraordinary Exotics Vet Hospital” in the GPS, and set off, wheels squealing. 

His knuckles were white, his palms slippery with sweat as he navigated unknown streets, grateful that the hour was still too early for most people to be on the road. Whether it was the sense of urgency or the numbing fear of driving that blanked his mind, he arrived at the vet hospital sooner than expected. He parked the car at an odd angle, scooped Henrietta into his arms, and ran inside. It was only when he explained the situation and they took her into emergency that he realized he was still wearing his helmet, along with all the other bike gear. Sweating, panting and shaking, he unclipped his helmet, slid off the elbow and knee pads, and shed his jacket. He collapsed into a chair and let his head fall into trembling hands, wondering how he avoided dying of a heart attack while driving the Death-mobile.

Hours later, the vet emerged to explain Henrietta’s extensive injuries. They included a broken wing, abrasions along her side, bumblefoot, and a case of egg yolk peritonitis that nearly went undetected amidst all her other ailments. The vet bill presented to Sam made his eyes water, but he paid it without complaint once he remembered to close his mouth.

“She’ll need to stay with us for a bit longer to recover from surgery, but you should be able to take her home with you tomorrow,” the vet explained. 

“Take her home? I don’t know where she lives,” Sam said.

“Presumably, she lives with you now?” the vet offered.

“You want me to take her to my home? I don’t have room—I mean, I’m not set up to care for a chicken.”

“Well, she’s over a year old, so most farmers won’t be interested in taking her. Honestly, Sam, most people wouldn’t have spent a fraction of the money you did. There aren’t many folks that will take her if you won’t.”

Sam was reluctant to set foot in his car at 11 o’clock on a busy Saturday and he stopped several times on the way back to re-thread his frayed nerves. Each time he stopped, his thoughts drifted back to Henrietta. To her soft feathers, the sad little clucking sounds she made, and the whimsical way her head moved like it needed to catch up with her body. He fretted over the idea of caring for such a fragile creature. How could he when he could barely care for himself?

His head fell onto the steering wheel, pressed the horn, and he straightened in surprise. In this moment, as in many others, he felt ill-equipped for life. But… he had done it. Sam might have appeared deranged when he dropped her off at the vet, but Henrietta was alive. He had rescued her. And that word, “rescued”, sounded almost… brave.

Despite his attempts to soothe his galloping heart and trembling limbs, Sam’s knees gave out three steps from his car. He laid beside his driveway, mercifully resting on cool grass, and threw his forearm over his eyes to shield them from the midday sun.

“You alright, Sam?” a feminine voice inquired above him.

Sam froze.

“Sam?”

It was, undoubtedly, his neighbor’s voice. What was her name? Sally? Susan? Sandra?

“Hi,” he replied, unmoving. “I’m alright. How are you?”

“Doing better than you.”

At that, Sam opened his eyes and was swiftly blinded by the sun. He groaned and stood up. “I’ve had a very long day.”

“I believe that. Do you, uh, need me to call someone?”

The mere thought of crowding his day and lawn with more people sent a bead of sweat tumbling down Sam’s spine. “No, I’m fine, thanks,” he said, waving her off and trying to look anywhere but her eyes.

“You sure?”

“Unless you know anyone that can take in an injured chicken, no.” Sam turned to leave, eager to claim sanctuary in his home.

“Well, that’s… I guess I could call Zoe.”

Sam turned on his heel so quickly that he nearly toppled back onto the turf. “Who?”

“My friend. She takes care of chickens. Pampers them better than any pets I’ve seen. You have a chicken that needs a home?”

Sareeta. Her name was Sareeta. He repeated that name to himself for the next half hour as she drove him to Zoe’s house, and again while she parked.

Zoe’s house was a stout thing with a stone facing barely discernible through climbing vines and a menagerie of bushes and shrubs. Sareeta didn’t bother wading through the greenery to the front door, and instead led them into the backyard.

Zoe’s backyard dwarfed her house, but more impressive than the array of trees and carefully curated garden beds was the massive coop. Chickens of every color and size pecked and scratched their way along the coop’s floor, perched from high beams, and dozed lazily in the sun. It took Sam a long minute for him to notice Zoe sitting beneath a massive walnut tree, cradling a large rooster painted in shades of autumn. 

“Zoe!” Sareeta called, and a smattering of hitherto unseen chickens emerged from the brush to cluck and cluster around them.

Zoe smiled and waved, but made no move to disturb the gentleman on her lap. Sareeta, Sam, and their avian entourage joined her, the humans settling into Muskoka chairs painted every color of the rainbow while the chickens scrutinized the greenery for bugs and seeds.

Sareeta introduced Sam and relayed his story with more clarity than Sam would have managed. When Sareeta finished speaking, Zoe turned to Sam with a warm smile.

“I’m so glad Sareeta brought you to me, Sam. I would hug you if it weren’t for Herbert,” she explained, directing a wry smile to the rooster. This close, Sam could discern a multitude of shades reflected in Herbert’s glossy feathers.

“That’s alright, I’m not much of a hugger,” he said just as a hen, this one brilliant white with a beet-red comb that drooped over one eye, made herself at home in his lap. He startled, but didn’t jump.

“Oh, Lucy’s a real snuggle-bug,” Zoe cooed. “She’d be in my lap if it weren’t for Herbert.”

Sam brushed his fingertips over Lucy’s back, and a small smile slipped across his lips. She was softer than anything he’d ever touched. The wind blew the subtle scent of spruce into his face. Chickens clucked quietly amidst distant birdsong, and all of Sam’s attention distilled to the warmth and softness of Lucy in his lap. Then she purred.

Sam looked at Zoe in wonder. Her smile grew. “She likes you.”

“I didn’t know chickens could purr,” he whispered.

“Chickens are far more than we give them credit for,” she whispered back. Then, “How can I help you, Sam?”

Sam took a deep breath and broke away an ounce of his focus on Lucy. “I’m looking for a home for Henrietta. She’s very injured right now, but the vet thinks she’ll recover. I’ve never cared for a chicken—or any animal—before and I want her to go to a good home.”

“Of course. I would gladly take her, but we’re at capacity here, I’m afraid.”

“Oh.”

Zoe looked from Sam to Lucy and back again. “Is there any reason you couldn’t care for Henrietta?”

“I’m afraid of everything.”

“Are you?”

Sam nodded vigorously. “I barely leave the house. I spend all my time alone. And I know absolutely nothing about chickens. I’d do a terrible job of caring for her,” he reasoned.

Zoe gazed down at Herbert as she mulled over his response. “You barely leave the house, so she could always count on your presence. You spend all you time alone, so she’d never be overwhelmed by loud strangers. And you have no prejudices about what chickens should or shouldn’t be. I think you’d take wonderful care of her.”

Sam blinked. When she put it like that…

“I’m terrified of driving though. It was a miracle I looked at my car twice today, let alone drove it. A-and animals are always covered in bugs, and I hate bugs. They make me itchy. And —”

Zoe lifted her hand to silence him. Herbert’s eyes drifted open lazily, then closed as she resumed stroking him. “But you did drive. You cared enough that you faced your fears for her. And that shows more than just bravery, it shows the goodness of your heart.”

Sam swallowed and regarded Lucy once more. Zoe’s belief in him caused an unsettling sense of purpose to bloom in his chest. The prospect of taking Henrietta home both terrified and called to him.

“Also,” Zoe added nonchalantly, “chickens eat bugs.”

That shouldn’t have sold him. But Sam was an engineer—a logical man, if a fearful one. And although having a small, soft friend to warm and purr in his lap thawed his heart, having a friend to dispose of the bugs in and around his home ultimately swayed his mind.

Zoe seemed to notice the resolve in his expression. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll teach you how to care for your Henrietta.”

Sam sat in his backyard, Henrietta in his lap, and watched the other ladies puttering about in the yard, whittling down the population of insects, arachnids and other creepy-crawlies.

Much had changed in the last month. Zoe and Sareeta helped him build an insulated coop for Henrietta. Sam insisted that the coop be directly outside his bedroom window so that he could hear her at night when he opened it. The clucking and shuffling of his feathered friend eased his nerves, and he’d slept peacefully in inky blackness each night since.

The weekend after he found Henrietta, he went biking again and came across another chicken, this one in a divot on the side of the road. He named her Peep. The next weekend, he spotted two chickens on the side of the road: Jessie and Stacey. With each rescue and drive to the vet, his hands dampened the wheel a little less.

His phone rang, breaking his reminiscing. Sam read the caller ID, smiled, and clicked ACCEPT without hesitation.

“Zoe! Coming to visit the ladies and I?”