T. GAMBLE:

Back when my daughter had only recently turned 7 years old, she wrote a letter to Santa Claus, as most little kids do. The letter was a little late, only about 10 days before Christmas. Normally that would not be a big deal, as we knew most of the things she wanted and if she added something new we would still have time to get it. But she threw in a big surprise. After asking for a doll and stuff like that, she asked Santa for a bunch of chickens and a chicken coop.

Well, the last time I checked, you couldn’t just go to Lowe’s and get a chicken coop. I could probably scurry up a few chickens, but the coop was going to be an issue. I could build the coop myself, which meant almost certain death to the chickens as varmints easily penetrated my rickety coop or more likely the thing just collapsed on top of them at the first whiff of a breeze and they were crushed to death. So, I paid to have one made.

The coop was built in 2010, and it still stands today, a testament to fine craftsmanship and paying enough to have built a bathroom addition to my home. With it I bought six fine chickens, if I may say so myself. All the chickens were way out in the country at my barn, protected only by the coop and a vicious male donkey named Bambi I have owned for 14 years.

Bambi successfully kept the coyotes and foxes away, and the chickens thrived. But, of course, time takes its toll, and one by one the chickens died. But not before all reached at least seven years of age. But finally it was down to just two 12-year-old chickens. I didn’t know a chicken could live 12 years. Then again, prior to having these chickens, my entire knowledge of chickens came from KFC.

When I was little, my grandmother had chickens. I doubt any of those lived over a year or two. Mainly because they got eaten by her before too long.

Anyway, I arrived at my barn over the weekend, and one of the surviving two had just fallen over and died, right there in his tracks after eating some very fine scratch feed. It was a sad occasion, as my remaining chicken began to squawk as I took the dead bird out of the coop. I’m not sure if she was upset or afraid she was about to be next. Regardless, I must now decide if I wish to embark on another 12-year journey with new chickens and also try to see how long the last one will make it.

I saw where a 16-year-old chicken made it on Johnny Carson back in the ’70s or ’80s. Maybe I could get on one of the late-night shows with my chicken if she makes it a few more years. The chicken has never been much farther than her coop, so I don’t know how she might handle that. But then again, I haven’t been too far off myself, so we shall see. Maybe I could just make a Zoom appearance to avoid COVID-19 and possibly bird flu. Wouldn’t it be ironic if I went with my oldest known chicken only to have it die from bird flu from being shown off?

Oh well, I guess I’ll let the chicken stay at the barn, buy some more chicks when Easter comes and see how long the lone survivor makes it. She’s the only one left, but I give her credit. She spurs back up an awfully fond memory every now and then when I think about the little Princess needed a chicken coop from Santa Claus.