There is a Chicken in my Basement

There is a chicken in my basement. Well, actually it’s a rooster. His name is Chicken Hawk and for the last seven months he has given my son something to occupy his time during Covid lockdown.

He came to our little farm with sixteen of his downy peeps as a three-day old chick. Like his pals, he was scared, hungry and looking to get out of the small box the hatchery had mailed him in.

Thor took it upon himself to be in charge of all things baby chicks needed, wanted and desired. He fed them three to four times a day, making sure their water was always fresh. He checked the heat lamps, adjusting to the right position for the perfect temperature. The bedding was faithfully changed and the hours that boy spent with them picking them up and holding them close are countless.

“You’re going to get head lice if you hug them.” I said.

“Ohhhh, mom.”

One chick caught his eye, the free fancy chicken they always send as a bonus. It’s no bonus when they send a rooster; they always send a rooster. Roosters and I have a long grave history.

My son loved this chick.

While the others grew large with fancy white and silver feathers, he stayed small and brown. All the other chicks would peep franticly. This little guy just sat there quiet in his corner of the stock tank. The chickens placed this guy at the bottom of their pecking order. Thor gave him a name and the two became best buds.

Over the last few months, he has trained his pet rooster the fine art of begging for handouts, because fresh veggie scraps are much tastier than dried up corn kernels. Before we were buried in snow, the rooster would follow Thor all around the barnyard. When the snows did come, Thor would pull him around the yard in his sled. He carried this rooster everywhere.

“Thor, where are you?” I yelled from the porch.

“I’m in my fort with Chicken Hawk.”

“Whaaat?”

“Yeah, I was showing Chicken Hawk around my fort.” He was so proud.

“Well, recess is over. You need to get back in the house and finish school.”

I stood there for a few seconds. “And don’t put that bird in your fort.”

“Why not?”

“Because they have lice!” I snapped back.

Recently Thor came to me with concerns over his little buddy.

“Mom, I think there is something wrong with his foot.”

I could tell, at his ripe old age of twelve, he was using all of his strength to keep it together.

My first words were something like this, “Sweetie, I am sorry but there really isn’t anything we can do.”

“Can’t we take him to the vet?”

“No, sweetie.”

I saw the joy of being a boy slowly drain from his face. This rooster had been everything to him and it killed me to see him like that.

“Ok, let me Google it.” I said.

And I did. We could do this, us two. Together we brought down the dog kennel to the basement. He filled it up with fresh hay and found dishes for food and water. Together we stood there in our cold basement soaking his feet in warm saltwater and doctoring it with medicine.

“Coo coo coo.” Said our little rooster.

“Coo coo coo.” I explained.

Chicken Hawk is doing much better. His feet look great and he crows from our basement every morning at the crack of dawn to show his gratitude. I don’t worry about headlice so much, okay, yeah, I do. But the love a boy has for his friend is nothing compared to the love I have for the boy. And maybe the rooster too.