[title subtitle=”words: Stoney Stamper
images: courtesy April Stamper”][/title]
My wife April is an animal lover. A true animal lover. Her heart is immediately filled with joy when she sees a fluffy, clumsy, cuddly puppy playing with a tennis ball, or a curious, rambunctious kitten attacking a ball of yarn.
When we were children, we lived just down the road and up the hill from one another. We rode Bus #5. She got on in the mornings just before I did, and I got off the school bus each day just after she did. Every day when the bus would drop her off at the end of their driveway, you could see any number of exotic animals grazing in the pastures. And it wasn’t just dogs and cats. Oh, no. They had horses, buffalo, bobcats, mountain lions, peacocks, ferrets, goats, and countless other species and breeds of animals. So, with her upbringing, it’s easy to see how she would grow up to be an adult with a soft spot for animals. But still, there are a few that she tends to hold in a higher regard than others. Horses are her favorite, followed closely by dogs. And then there are chickens. She absolutely loves chickens. She loves to watch them peck around the yard for food. She loves to hear them talking to each other out in the yard, and the rooster crowing at the start of each day. And she loves all the different breeds, varieties and colors that are available. Chickens just make her happy.
One of her first memories as a child involves chickens. Unfortunately, it’s not one of her favorite memories. Nearly thirty years later, it still haunts her. As a little bright-eyed, seven-year-old brunette beauty, she grabbed an armful of her new baby chicks that her stepfather had bought for her. She snuck them into her bedroom, played with them until she got sleepy, then she tucked them into bed with her and fell asleep hugging them closely. Sadly, the next morning, she awoke to an Armageddon-like scene. Just like Lenny in Of Mice and Men, she had cuddled and squeezed and loved the baby chickens too much. She had laid on them during the night. Unfortunately, there were no survivors, and she was devastated.
I sometimes wonder if that tragic night so many years ago is what fuels her love for chickens now. She enjoys them more than you could imagine. When we first moved to our new property, we were so excited with all of the possibilities. We had land and barns and room to do things that we hadn’t been able to do when we lived in town. April quickly had a plan. No sooner had we moved into our house, than she was tearing out junk and old shelving from a tool shed in the backyard. She gave me a picture of what she wanted it to look like inside, and when I had finished with my little Bob Vila project, she had what I would call the fanciest chicken coop in east Texas. It was complete with barstools, decorative home furnishings, and even a chandelier. If April ever decides to kick me out of the house, its nice to know that I have a pretty, frilly and comfortable pad that I can crash at until I am back in the missus’ good graces.
Once the chicken coop was complete, it was time for her to start adding new tenants. Our first chicken purchases were just some run-of-the-mill Leghorns. White bodies with red combs on their heads, they are the most common chicken you will find. While April was happy to have them, she yearned for more variety, more color. She found just what she was looking for on the local swap-n-shop page on Facebook. A woman in a small Texas town some thirty miles away had dozens of varieties of chickens running around wild on her property. She invited April out to look around. I volunteered to drive her out there, which turned out to be much more of an undertaking than I had anticipated. It was truly in the middle of nowhere. April got some very vague directions to their place, and of course, we got lost. Once we had made multiple U-turns, we finally found our way to the right place. April looked around in awe at the chickens scouring the landscape. They were everywhere, and she was in heaven. We quickly found just what she was looking for. She got two Dominickers and one black banty. They were small but pretty. She happily scooped them up, put them in the pet taxi that we had brought and we headed home. All the way home she talked excitedly about the beautiful flock that she now had. She was ecstatic at the thought of having to gather fresh eggs every day. The look of pure delight literally glowed on her pretty face. And then, the annoyance that I had for having to drive forty-five minutes into the middle of nowhere to find them was gone. Once the new members of the family were introduced into our little chicken commune, April looked proudly around at them. Her cute grin and giggles reminded me so much of our ten-year-old daughter Emma. April fed them and bought them treats and played with them. It was adorable.
Months passed by, and the chickens began to mature. The anticipation of them beginning to lay eggs was almost unbearable for her. Every day she’d make her way out to the coop looking for eggs, and finally, it happened. Her first egg! You would have thought that she had won the Indy 500, judging by the celebration that she was having. Then the next day, there were more. And April’s cup was overflowing.
As the chickens got bigger, we began to notice that one of the Dominickers looked a little different than the others. Bigger, thicker, and more aggressive. It was a rooster. But that was okay. One rooster wasn’t a big deal. But then the other Dominicker began to get bigger, too. And thicker, and more aggressive. Uh oh. It was a rooster, too. I had always heard that two roosters were trouble. But they had been together since birth and had always got along, so it shouldn’t be any trouble, right? Unfortunately, no. You are going to have trouble. One rooster clearly had the upper hand. He was bigger, stronger, faster and more aggressive than the other. Sadly, before we even had the opportunity to separate them, nature had run its course. And once again, I saw this thirty-something woman turn into a sad little girl right in front of my eyes. I disposed of the smaller rooster, hugged and kissed her, and told her I was sorry. And then I did what any good husband would do. I bought her more chickens.
Are we great chicken farmers? No. Do I get unbelievably tired of having to clean chicken poop off of my porch every single day? Yes. Do I kind of want to kill the big rooster when he sits right outside my bedroom window and crows at 6:00 every Saturday morning? Yes. But as long as these stinkin’ birds keep putting that smile on her face, I suppose I’ll keep that chicken farmer out in the middle of nowhere on speed dial.
