Musings from Cluckingham Palace

(a post from October 2008)

I had to teach my cage-reared hens how to roost this evening. Think about it. Animals, intended by nature to sleep while hanging onto a branch had no concept of the need to find a perch off the ground, had to be shown how to find their balance.

These are 20 week old hens, virtually sexually mature and theoretically able feed and comport themselves as part of a flock, which have had until now no idea of scratching and foraging, no concept of worm, no sense to get out of the sun or rain. We‘ve had to teach them each of these chookly skills, in the hope that once there have been shown that there is a more natural way to “be”, their instinct will take over where our lessons fall short.

What have we done to these gentle and wise creatures? And what does it say about the instincts we have so thoroughly suppressed as to make them unreachable, the essence of fable and bygone memory?

For now, I’ll go out each evening to croon to and settle my charges; and pray that they they’ll soon realise that they are safe and comfy on their perches. And that I’ll soon realise that there is a better way than juggling chainsaws for a living, that life is superior to existence.