Oedipus the Chicken

Every night each of the boys chooses a bedtime story that Earl or I read to them. Cliffy is making his way through the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Harley likes Richard Scarry or Jan Brett. Oliver is all about his little tractor board book. And Jackson likes Greek Mythology. We've made our way through Mt. Olympus and the trials of Heracles and Hera and Zeus' little love spats and I've noticed a few trends. For one, the honorable figures are not always, or even often, victorious in their conflicts. Secondly, the Oracle of Delphi seems to foretell all the bad stuff that's ever going to happen, but the doomed characters fight like the dickens anyhow. And I've also noticed that sons end up killing their fathers on a regular basis. I've been figuring this is because mythology takes the stages or conflicts of life and personifies them--the unattractive Hephaestes got dealt a bad hand in the looks department, but he works long hours at his gold- and silver-smithing and makes articles of stunning beauty. Gossipy, shallow Echo ends up nothing but a voice following a self-centered Narcissus around until he is so spellbound by his image in a glassy pool that he grows roots and becomes a plant that leans over to admire its reflection in water. And tyrant fathers who rule Olympus, or Thebes, eventually get ousted by their sons. The author doesn't offer up moral lessons so much as he just seems to be saying, "Hey, it happens." And fathers who think they're all powerful will eventually start to weaken with age and their sons, who've grown in that image, will have to be a bit forceful out of the guns if they're to be respected by the populace. Killing, well, that can be a metaphor, but a little bit of public roaring is usually in order.

So tonight, when I stopped in to refill the chickens' water bucket on the way back from the barn, I saw that our chicken coop is locked in a little Zeus/Cronos drama of their own. This spring, I incubated about thirty eggs and ended up with three live chicks who have since grown to adulthood, a white rooster, a black rooster, and a speckled hen. Lacy, the hen, just started laying, which is a pretty good indication that Mr. Feathers and Grawp are also sexually mature. They are all big and flashy and have magnificent combs. Mr. Feathers was the first to sprout his rooster decorations and is by far the more dominant of the two. I thought they might start fighting soon, so I didn't let Grawp in after the last warm day I let them out, and he seems happy to roam about and make boastful crowing noises signifying nothing. Mr. Feathers and Buster seemed to have worked out some sort of arrangement and didn't seem to be paying much attention to each other.

Until tonight.

When I was closing the coop door, I heard an awful squawking and thrashing from the corner of the coop. I looked behind the door and saw a skirmish that at first looked like one chicken with its head stuck, trying to get loose, but was really Mr. Feathers beating up on Buster, who had his head stuffed in the corner. And yes, all their feathers were ruffled.

I'm not sure how old Buster is. He was with the Rhode Island Reds I got from Berry when Cliffy was in first grade and I think he came from a coop of older birds. He can't be any younger than five, and is probably six or seven, which is getting along in chicken years. Lately I've noticed that his plumage is looking a little shabby and that, next to Mr. Feathers anyway, his comb seems a bit droopy. When I pulled him from the corner, he seemed defeated, which I guess he was, but he wasn't that upset about it.

Mr. Feathers, for his part, was all puffed up and threw back his head for a long crow. And though I'm exactly Buster's biggest fan, this pissed me off. It might be the natural order of things, but I am part of these chickens' order, and I gave him a little shove with my toe and crowed right back at him. After three years of Buster's incessant announcements, I do a pretty good imitation and Mr. Feathers was suitably alarmed. I thought I watched his status with the hens drop a notch and I thought about putting him in exile to roam the heifer barn and manure pit until Buster passed on from internal failings. But then the idea of being alpha chicken to these birds hit me and I made a hasty retreat. I take care of them, but I don't want to, you know, get involved.

I don't know what I'll find out there tomorrow. Could be Mr. Feathers was just establishing his dominance and will leave the bumbling old Buster to himself. Or maybe in chicken politics, Buster has to go. Maybe Buster will rally and Mr. Feathers, impressive comb and all, will find himself at the bottom of the pecking order again. Regardless, my plan is to bring grain, change water and send a well-gloved Cliffy to collect any carcasses.