The white man must treat the beasts as his brothers. . . If all the beasts were gone, man would die from great loneliness of spirit. For whatever happens to the beasts, soon happens to man. All things are connected. (Chief Seattle)
He shall cover you with his feathers, and under His wings shall you find refuge . . .(Psalms 91:4)
. . . that they may be to you as relatives. (Lakota tribe)
As long as I can remember, I’ve had chickens (except for a stint of about 10 years in the swamps of Louisiana, where chickens’ dinosaur origins were fully acknowledged and chickens-as-pets given a dim view). But as a child my first animal friends were chickens. One of my earliest memories is that of sitting flat on the muddy ground of a chicken yard, still in diapers (at least I hope I had one on — older sister, sometimes given the joy of attending to such trifles, sometimes “forgot”), trying to carefully rescue chicks caught in a torrential downpour — I can still remember how I cupped each chick carefully in my hands and handed them up to my sister, and how cold and wet they felt, and how important it was to save them . . And how squishy the ground felt on my bottom.
We got our chicks in two different ways: Sometimes my mom would order the chicks through the mail, and it would be so exciting to go to our small town post office and hear a chorus of peeping coming from the back and wonder if they were ours. But most of the chicks we got were special needs ones, “culls” that my dad got from the hatchery, where otherwise they would have been killed. They lived at first in a cardboard box by the kitchen stove that grew in size as they did, with a heat lamp hung above the box. Their names reflected their appearance, Crooked Toe, Brainy, No Tail, Beaky, Two Toes . . . They were richly loved, and as a result bonded with us and we believed they loved us back extravagantly.
Chickens were my refuge and sanctuary, too. When things were tense or snarky in our house, I would go sit on the doorstep of the chicken house. The hens would vie for places on my lap, where they would gently swipe their beak back and forth on my knee. The comfort of that was amazing. And healing.
The deep connection that most children share with animals and nature is remarkable, as if indeed they know something that we as adults have forgotten: that the landscape of relationship includes infinitely more possibilities than only human-to-human. In her wonderful book, Animals as Teachers and Helpers, author Susan Chernack McElroy speaks of a Lakota phrase, mitaku oyasin, meaning “all my relations,” a prayer that honors all of creation by recognizing and affirming our inter-connectedness. If humankind lived as though all of creation were honored relations, can we even begin to imagine what a different world it would be . . . A place where animals and all the earth would be seen as loved and honored relatives. . .
And we human types stand to learn and gain so much from such a point of view! Currently our flock of chickens includes Popeye the rooster, and his little harem of eight hens. Popeye is an Araucana rooster who rules our chicken yard with a tender touch. Very solicitous of his flock of eight, some of whom are gentle subtle ladies and some who are drama queens, he spends his day doing his spouse-ly duties, patrolling for predators, and searching for food his girls might enjoy. When he finds a choice morsel, he gives a sweet kissing-like call, “took-took-took,” that brings them running to his side. Then he stands aside while they enjoy the treat, and only after they’ve had their fill will he sample the snack. The Talmud praises the rooster, and its writers advise us to learn from him courtesy towards our mates.
Although he stands tall and prances proudly, Popeye is a gentle gentleman, eying us benignly as we care for the flock, never flinging his spurs about as so many roosters seem inclined to do when they strut their stuff. His crow is a part of the soundtrack of the farm, and he starts welcoming the coming of the light around 3 a.m. And while it always feels to me as if he is crowing for the sheer joy of it, the prophet Muhammad tells us that roosters crow because they have seen an angel.
And seeing Popeye lift his head in a hymn of praise, it’s easy to believe that.