Paying the price for farm-fresh eggs

Looking out my office window to the spot where the chicken coop used to be, I'm not sure how I feel about no more fresh eggs. I never wanted chickens in the first place, but a smart husband picks his battles carefully and so it came to be that I was the owner of three of them.

Chicken No. 1 appeared in our yard one day last spring. Days passed and she just kept hanging out in the yard. I figured she'd eventually move along or return home. I even sent the kids around the neighborhood to see if they could figure out where she belonged, but nobody within reasonable distance knew.

And then it started. I'd been dreading these words since the chicken arrived, "Honey, free eggs! Let's keep her!"

When we were living in Ellensburg we befriended a local farmer who kept us stocked in fresh eggs, and I admit I liked them a lot better than store-bought. Ever since, Glenny had wanted chickens. But that meant building a coop, getting supplies - you know, "helping." To me, chickens were just more responsibility on top of six kids, dogs, a cat, work, etc.

And while I do like farm-fresh eggs, I think chickens are amazingly stupid and stink. But now that the chicken had come to us, this was all the motivation Glenny needed, and of course, the kids - except my oldest son who was on my side - were all for it.

My feeble, last-ditch effort was to try the "you want it, you figure it out" tack wherein I tell the family they can have the chicken, but it is their responsibility.

So Glenny and the kids constructed this quasi-pen thing out of scrap wood and my best tarps. So now we had a chicken and a part of the set from "Sanford and Son" in our backyard. I'm sure the neighbors loved it. I sighed heavily and sat down to draft a materials list and design for a chicken coop.

We got the materials and my grumbling oldest son and spent a Saturday putting together a 6-foot high, 8-foot long and 6-foot wide coop. One end had an enclosed area with a little ramp for the dumb chicken to walk in and out, a shelf with straw on it and a little hinged door on the back where the kids could check for eggs. The rest of the coop was netted in, except for the door. I refused to spend a lot of money on it so it was constructed almost entirely out of 1-by-2s and cheap plywood instead of the good stuff. I think I subconsciously hoped the next windstorm would carry it away like the "Wizard of Oz" and plop it down somewhere far away, like maybe Kansas.

Soon, Thomas the cat began showing keen interest in our lone chicken strutting around inside her coop. In her previous chicken ghetto-hut he hadn't noticed her since she was out of sight. But he noticed now, which sparked a panic among the kids and Glenny. I grew up around chickens on my grandparent's farm and my dad had a few for awhile, so I knew a cat was no match for a Rhode Island Red.

I told my wife and kids the chicken would be fine, but every time I sat down to relax the kids would look out the window. There was Thomas eyeing the chicken. Out of patience, I stomped outside, picked up Thomas, opened the coop and tossed him in.

I could hear the panic escalate inside the house, except for my oldest son who was laughing. The chicken was clucking, the cat was hissing and growling, fur and feathers were flying as bodies banged and crashed against the walls.

About the time my wife figured out what was happening and was on her way out, I opened the coop door and Thomas shot out with all the hair sticking up on his back and a new-found respect for chickens.

I went back into the house with my quiet "I told you so" look on my face. Thomas never messed with a chicken again.

Soon chicken No. 1 (called "Daisy" now) was joined by two more. I suggested we name them "KFC" and "Popeye's," but that was a no-go. Drumstick and Nuggets? Original Recipe and Extra Crispy? But my suggestions for names were met with silence and cold stares.

So we had chickens throughout the summer and enjoyed the occasional egg or two. But as winter approached and I had to tromp back out and insulate it, install heat and get the coop ready for winter, store-bought eggs started to sound better and better.

Then at o-dark-30 a couple Saturdays back we were shaken from our sleep by hard pounding on our back door and the dog barking. When we opened the door three firemen greeted us. Seems something had happened and the coop had burned nearly to the ground. Somebody driving by had seen it and reported it. I quietly thanked myself for intentionally putting the coop away from the house, shed or any trees.

I never liked these birds much, but for my kids' sake was sad as I went out to take care of their crispy remains. Instead, though, I found the three of them huddled together against the one small piece of wall that remained. Not a scratch or a burn. We carefully boxed them up and put them in the laundry room. Glenny called a friend who had a farm and gladly took them.

Writing this reminds me we need to go to the store - we're out of eggs.

Ben Compton is a Palmer resident and publishes his column under the tagline "Compton's Corner," the same title used by his grandmother, Phyllis Compton, a longtime Frontiersman columnist.