It was the first day that I was taking the Covid-19 social distancing seriously. On my morning hike, I made an effort to separate from the rest of the group. Usually this happens anyway since I am the slow one, steps behind, inhaling so deeply that I couldn’t hear the chatter of the other hikers.But this was my last chance to be on the trail for a while, not just because of the admission that we are in the midst of a pandemic but that several days of rain were forecast.
With the rain on its way, we were surrounded by a landscape that looked like a Hudson Valley School paitnting. The cumulus clouds grounded in gray shadows portending the storm were a foil against the Santa Monica Mountains which were Van Goghlike in their vibrant greens from some rain the prior week.
As we said our goodbyes, I was made a list in my head of everything that had to be done before the rain. When I got home, I loaded the bucket with feed for the chickens. I unlatched the door and entered the fully enclosed yard. First, I filled the feeder for Ruth Bader Hensburg, my precious tiny bantam with a white head and black body. Smart and sassy, just like the real RBG, she is my favorite.
From there, I entered the inner-sanctum with feed for the other seven chickens who are larger and older than RBG. They needed feed and water. And to my surprise, I saw two white eggs in the nesting boxes. The chickens had only started to lay again a few days earlier after their winter hiatus. I snatched the eggs and slipped them in my pocket while I left to set up the hose and bring more feed.
I threaded the hose through the chicken wire walls of the enclosure and turned on the spigot. Then, I returned to the chickens to fill their feeder. When the waterer was nearly full, I pulled open the door to eave and turn off the faucet. But the door had latched. And the wire that hung next to the latch to open it was gone. Meanwhile, water was now flowing over the top of the waterer into the enclosure. Quickly, I pulled the hose out of the enclosure and directed it toward the plants on the outer perimeter and then returned to the latch. I pushed my pointer finger through the holes of the chicken wire hoping to reach the latch but my finger was not long enough. I tried another hole, and another. I tried the fingers on my left hand. Nothing worked.
I slid my left hand into my pocket for my phone but only felt the eggs. With my right hand, I felt my phone and dialed my husband. He did not answer. I dialed again. On the last ring, I heard a groggy voice: hello.
“I’m locked in the chicken coop, come and open the latch.”
He wanted to inquire how this could happen but I cut him off, “the wire is gone, just come,” and then I hung up.
Even though I wanted him to instantly teleport to me, I knew that would not happen but the minutes passed so slowly it felt like I was underwater. Meanwhile, the water was pouring from the hose and the plants who were fine especially since the sky was darker now signalling the immediacy of the rain.
I put my left hand back in my pocket to pull my phone out and snap some photos of the girls. My phone was not in that pocket, and now the eggs were not really there either. they had cracked and my jacket pocket felt slimy and cold. to make matters worse, i felt the first droplets of rain on my head. How long was i going to have to huddle with the rest of the chickens to stay dry? Where was my husband, it had been fifteen minutes. I knew this because I had pulled my phone from the right pocket and had been taking selfie videos with the chickens.
Finally, I saw a figure through the glass panes of our front door. I was about to be rescued. The figure bent down and I saw a small wheat colored blob. My husband bent to attach the leash to our pup. The chickens would be terrified. I imagined Einstein chasing the girls, barking, with my husband trying to contain the dog while I stood huddled with the other chickens.
If i ever thought about what it was like to be a chicken, I now had a sense of their everyday life – time passes and everything stays the same, the only difference is the weather and in Southern California, that is nuanced.
