a bird of a different color

Whoever applied the “unintelligent” stereotype to chickens never met Ginger. She was given her name on a mere whim but looking back, no other name would have fit her half as well. Of course, there is the possibility that the name came first and the attitude simply followed. But who’s to judge?

Ginger’s baby life was somewhat chaotic as she was raised in a one-size-fits-all environment with several hundred others of her kind. It must have been traumatizing for her to have been lumped together with the rest of the common flock of birds; eating from the same table, having the same bedtime, etc.. She always knew she deserved better but as the saying goes, people (or in this case, chickens) throw rocks at things that shine. Ginger was the prime henpecked example.

After living in a cardboard box with a few comparatively dull chicks for several months, a little girl happened along and took her under her wing. She was assigned the name “Ginger” because she was brown and went to live in a tiny house with five cantankerous housewife hens. For the most part they regarded little Ginger with disgust and she spent most if her time residing on top of the henhouse door. Luckily there was someone in this cold world who loved her and catered to her even in such an out-of-reach place because, well, she was obviously royalty. She had her own personal cafe and multiple perches that were inaccessible by her slightly overweight oppressors; not to mention that she nearly always got the first choice from the scrap bucket. She may have possibly even had her own blanket.

Ginger obtained a rather comical appearance as she grew that set her apart from all others of her species. She had ear muffs. Or where they sideburns?

Ginger developed appalling table manners. It became her habit to bolt down anything resembling food as soon as it was offered to her. Actually most of the random things she consumed in her lifetime probably didn’t even resemble food and weren’t being offered at all. On a particular unpleasant day, she even inhaled a vast portion of hailstones before staring vacantly off into the distance. Do chickens suffer from brain freeze? That summer, crickets were largely available in the area and they became her all time favorite in the snack department. Other chickens of mere average speed only got crumbs when Ginger was around.

Eventually four of the grouchy old hens went were all good chickens go and Ginger’s life became decidedly more pleasant. As it turned out, her and her fellow chicken, Starlight, were birds of a feather. Whether they just had the natural tendency for getting into scrapes or they learned bad tricks from one another or a healthy combination of both, that unlikely pair was truly something to behold. The predicaments they got themselves in to seemed uncannily well-planned. Who says chickens don’t have the mindful capacity to scheme and plot the demise of the human race? I am thoroughly convinced they do.

The next summer brought more adjustments for Ginger. Eight rather flighty, insecure chickens joined the flock. This included the rooster, Storm King. He had a slightly know-it-all attitude as most roosters do and this did not sit well with Her Majesty. By this time, our little Ginger was confident in her ability as well as her obvious privilege to rule the roost. After a few feathers flew Storm King maintained a polite distance from Ginger and the others followed his lead. Ginger reigned supreme in the henhouse.

Maybe she was spoiled rotten. Maybe she was trying to compensate for her life as a chick. Or maybe she was just living up to her name.

-ck