Our
small chicken coop stands on four wooden legs which elevate the coop a
foot or so off the ground. The area beneath the coop is accessible to
our two Rhode Island Red hens, Nellie and Hope, who like to hang out
there to escape the sun on hot summer days. That under-the-coop opening
is framed with chicken wire, to prevent us from having to ask why the
chicken crossed the road.
A few days ago, I found myself on my knees right outside the coop as I patched up breaks in the wiring that runs along that opening. At the time, Nellie was in the coop, going about the business of laying an egg. But Hope, who seems to have retired from the laying game, was under the coop, paying close attention to what I was doing. Hope stood no more than a foot from my face, because I was working so low to the ground. She didn't "speak" or fidget or peck about in search of edible bugs, but stood perfectly still, staring at me. Hope and I were eye to eye, separated only by chicken wire.
Hope didn’t take her eye off me for quite some time, and I was reminded of something I’ve noticed many times over the years while in close proximity to a chicken. Although I had no idea what Hope was thinking during this intense and focused exercise in surveillance, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was looking into the eye of a sentient being, a sometimes baffling but obviously intelligent creature.
In The Outermost House: A Year of Life on the Great Beach of Cape Cod (1928), Henry Beston wrote: “We need another and a wiser and perhaps a more mystical concept of animals . . . . For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours, they move finished and complete, gifted with the extension of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings: they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendour and travail of the earth.”
A few days ago, I found myself on my knees right outside the coop as I patched up breaks in the wiring that runs along that opening. At the time, Nellie was in the coop, going about the business of laying an egg. But Hope, who seems to have retired from the laying game, was under the coop, paying close attention to what I was doing. Hope stood no more than a foot from my face, because I was working so low to the ground. She didn't "speak" or fidget or peck about in search of edible bugs, but stood perfectly still, staring at me. Hope and I were eye to eye, separated only by chicken wire.
Hope didn’t take her eye off me for quite some time, and I was reminded of something I’ve noticed many times over the years while in close proximity to a chicken. Although I had no idea what Hope was thinking during this intense and focused exercise in surveillance, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was looking into the eye of a sentient being, a sometimes baffling but obviously intelligent creature.
In The Outermost House: A Year of Life on the Great Beach of Cape Cod (1928), Henry Beston wrote: “We need another and a wiser and perhaps a more mystical concept of animals . . . . For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours, they move finished and complete, gifted with the extension of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings: they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendour and travail of the earth.”
No comments:
Post a Comment