Dad bought a used chicken coop in 1952, and placed it on the west side of our lot next to the new fence. It was about a hundred feet behind the house and we built a fenced area directly behind. The chickens could access their yard by a small opening in the back side.
The coop, eight by twelve feet, seemed larger at the time. A panel of windows faced the house and could be opened for ventilation. A row of shelves at the back offered nesting places for the mature hens. A layer of fresh wood shavings covered the floor; a new galvanized steel feeder, and two watering trays with gallon bottles on top sat in the middle awaiting the new occupants.
Two big boxes sat on the kitchen floor one evening. Each was about thirty inches on a side, and six inches high. The lids opened to reveal a sea of yellow furry chicks, chirping loudly, cute and cuddly. Each box had fifty chicks. We took them out to the coop that evening and set up lights that hung just above the floor to keep them warm. All was new and clean. It even possessed a pleasant aroma that emanated from wood shavings, but that was soon to change.
Don and I were given the job of caring for the brood. It was not long until the cute little chicks grew into not so cute teenagers, and then into full sized adults. The birds scratched, pecked and crapped all over the place. By August the wood shavings had been supplemented with droppings till there was four inches of "dungwood" on the floor. It was no longer pleasant to enter the coop as a miasma of ammonia rose to assault ones nostrils. Don and I cleaned it in August, just before school started. August is always hot and humid, so the job was a sweaty one, like working in a combination sauna-outhouse.
Most of the chickens were caged and carted off to a local business that did the dirty work. The next time we saw them they were shrouded in white paper and entombed in our deep freeze. We kept a couple dozen females for eggs and one cranky rooster to service them. There might have been another generation of cute yellow chicks the following year - if so, it was the last.
The egg layers stayed on another year or two. There was one hen that came close to being a pet. She had crippled toes that curled to the side, so she walked in a wobbly manner. We could pet her as she was not able to escape us, and in time seemed to accept our friendly gestures. The deformity saved her life. She was selected when we picked keeper hens.
The rooster was not so grateful that he had been selected as a keeper. He was protective of his hens, maybe a bit jealous, so we soon learned to keep an eye on him when we were in the chicken yard. Normally he would jump one of us from behind, beating our legs with his wings as he attempted to dig his spurs in, but he wasn’t averse to frontal attacks. He never managed to do us any harm. It was mainly the surprise attacks that got our hormones flowing.
Dad, Don and I were standing at the fence one day when the rooster took offence at our presence. His neck feathers stood out as he repeatedly collided with the fence while trying to get at us. Dad feigned with his open palm a couple times, teasing him. The next time the rooster jumped Dad grabbed it around the neck - perfect timing. He shook the rooster back and forth several times - nothing hard, more in a playful manner, and then dropped it back into the yard. We thought it was one of the funniest sights we’d ever seen. The rooster, a bit ruffled and confused, momentarily lost his dignity, so the incident served only to hardened his negative attitude.
Late in the summer of 1953 we went to the coop one morning and found all the chickens dead, their bodies carpeting the floor, a sea of white feathers. There was no blood that I remember. They had not shown any signs of sickness, so it was a mystery as to what had happened. The two of us dug a trench that afternoon and buried them, including cripple-toes and the rooster.
That evening, or the next, we heard a ruckus coming from the direction of Stock’s place - chickens excitedly clucking, wings beating, etc., so we hopped the fence, and ran through the orchard to the chicken yard. When we got to the coop we saw two dogs inside. Don grabbed a big coffee can used to feed and water the chickens and thrust it in the small opening where they had gotten in. As soon as the dogs knew we were present they stopped their mayhem, and laid down. It was an eerie scene. The dogs, one about 30 pounds, the other closer to fifty seemed normal and friendly. They lay there amongst the chickens, many dead, some alive but moving about in stunned silence.
What were we to do next? Don and I were the only ones home. There were no adults to ask for guidance - no one to pass the buck to. For several minutes we crouched there periodically looking through the hole. The dogs continued in their Zen like serenity; the chickens had calmed down and begun moving with a guarded caution, seemingly oblivious to their dead compatriots. It was finally decided that I should go home and call the sheriff’s office.
I fumbled through the telephone book, eventually finding the number. I was thirteen, making my first call to authority, and can only image how it went. I remember only a few particulars. I described the situation.
Sheriff‘s Office. “Do you have a gun?”
Me, “Yes”.
Sheriff’s Office, “Shoot the dogs” .
Me (gulp), “I don’t have any bullets”.
Sheriff’s Office, “We’ll send out a Deputy”.
Me. “Okay”.
We waited at the coop for what seemed like an interminable time before a patrol car drove into the Stock’s drive. Two deputies got out and walked over to the coop. They looked in, conversed for a second, then one drew his pistol, opened the door, crotched in a shooting position and fired. The larger dog died where it lay; the smaller one became agitated. The second shot hit it in the foot, causing it to howl and run around for a while. When it settled down the Deputy dispatched it with one more shot. He holstered his revolver; they returned to their car and drove away. It was surreal.
Don and I were in shock. I don’t remember us saying anything afterward. We quietly went home, leaving the dead dogs and chickens in the coop for the neighbors to attend. I felt sorry for the dogs. They were probably family pets out on a night of fun, but were playing a deadly game that cost them their lives.
GO TO: Part 5, The Store Across the Street
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