Dedicated to my sister, Pam
When I was seven, I decided that I wanted a real live peep for Easter. Oh, now, I didn’t know anything about raising a little peep or, if it would be a fun pet to have. I just knew that I wanted one.
So, I got my peep. It was a little blue one. And, I liked it for about a day. I didn’t know it wouldn’t stay in the box I made for it. I didn’t know it would poop icky sticky stuff all over the floors. I didn’t know it wouldn’t eat cool stuff like carrots and lettuce. I didn’t know it wouldn’t sleep in the bed with me or follow me around like a little puppy dog. So, I quickly became bored with it and it became my sister Pam’s charge. She was 10.
As the peep got older, it lost its blue feathers and got a little comb on top of its head. Poor Pam! She wasn’t stuck with a little hen that would someday lay eggs and reward her with gentleness. No, the little peep became a mean rooster that would peck her when she tried to feed it or care for it.
The rooster was moved to a rabbit pen that was located along the back border of the yard. (I think this pen was left by the previous owners of our our house.) This rooster would bang at the the cage if I got near him and he would flare out his neck feathers. I was scared of him and didn’t want to get near him! Pam, on the other hand, had to go feed him everyday. He hated her, too.
On Pam’s 11th birthday, the little bugger pecked her really hard. She remembers bopping him on the head, so he would learn not to peck the hand that feeds him. (She said that he was fine after the bopping because it really wasn’t a hard bop after all.) It being her birthday, she quickly forgot about the sweet little peep turned monster. After dark, she remembered to go feed the bird (cause that was her duty to feed all the critters). When she got to the cage, she found it dead and torn apart. A weasel must have squirmed into the cage and killed it. And, of, course, she felt so very bad that she had bopped it earlier that day.
That’s my sister’s peep story. She related it to me recently and asked if I remembered it. Honestly, I did not until she brought it up. And, my memories about him are still a bit fuzzy.
I do have one question for her now that I’m hoping she can answer. Did that little devil rooster have a name?
P.S. For those wondering, Pam wasn’t permanently adversely affected by what I’m now calling “The little bastard rooster incident.” Forty and some odd years later, she’s quite okay (I think)!
And, by the way, Have a Happy Easter, everyone!
I can’t believe not one of my sisters was disturbed by the fact that some dirty old man had the hots for our mother (she would have been in her late twenties)! He only came to “visit” when dad was not home.
Linda, No, I’m not disturbed by it. I’m sure she must have hated seeing him coming! But, you describe a woman who handled herself well (while protecting her family from eviction), which does not surprise me. For me, it is just another reminder of how remarkable she was.
No comment from the middle sister. I sometimes wonder if I was adopted!
Bonnie, wonder all you want, but, you can’t have been adopted! The four of us are inextricably intertwined!
The Chicken Coop house was a 3-room shanty that had no bathroom (the little kids used a potty chair). It was owned by an old fat man named Harv No Last Name who “wanted” our young attractive mother. He would trudge up the hill to engage mom in conversation just about every day. Mom, of course, did not like the fat man but was polite and standoffish. Even though the house was a dump, we seemed to have a lot of company. In summer we had family picnics. There are pictures somewhere of Aunt Doris and other relatives at a picnic table enjoying themselves. At one picnic dad was sitting on the ground and ants crawled up his pants and he jumped around and had to take off his pants. I had a friend named Butchie No Last Name who had polio (I think) and had to pick marbles with his toes. Bonnie drank turpentine (among other things) and had to be taken to the hospital to have her stomach pumped. These are a few of my recollections of the Chicken Coop house and probably is the reason why I’m so obsessed with it.
Since I was two when we moved into what we call the “Stone House,” I have no recollection of The Chicken Coop House. I have heard some stories of how incredibly poor we were. I had not heard of Harv or your friend Butchie.
You probably thought you were in heaven when we moved into the Stone House. It’s all perception, I guess, as I grew up feeling as though we were the poorest family in our school district.
We still turned out okay.
Beheading pet chickens, bopping roosters on the head, massacre by weasels, not to mention animal neglect (after a day!) – guess how that sounds to this townie!
And for some reason, all I can hear now is a song that my daughter sings from school:
Little Bunny Frou-frou, hopping through the forest,
Picked up a fieldmouse and bopped him on the head.
I hope not too many people got live bunnies this Easter. My Dad kept rabbits as a child, and often talks about how they could cause a person a lot of damage by kicking out with their sharp claws. He used to hypnotize them too. In fact, I believe you can hypnotize chickens also, by tucking their heads under their wings and spinning around in circles.
Graham, I know! It all sounds just so bizarre!
I understand you can do the same thing with sharks…hypnotize that is. We should all try!
Carrie, and hypnotize snakes, too! That’s what the snake charmers, do!
I don’t know whose chicken it was that grew up from a colored peep only to be beheaded by dad. Mom had to cook it so I assume she ate it as well. (I don’t know for sure!) Dennis made a big fuss about not eating it so that is why I didn’t eat it either.
Here’s another little tidbit: dad killed a snake and chased me with it. I have issues with snakes to this day. That also occured at the Chicken Coop house. I have dreams about the Chicken Coop house!!!!
OMG. This story gets worse and worse! I bet we look totally dysfunctional to strangers! Your stories make my stories sound tame! You should have a website! You could call it The Chicken Coop House.
Long before you were a gleam in dad’s eye we got peeps for Easter. We lived in the house behind Fun City ironically called the “Chicken Coop” by mom. I can remember going “downtown” to a store (5 and 10) and seeing all of these multi colored (pink, blue, violet, green) peeps in a holding pen. Some kids got real live baby bunnies for Easter. (The Humane society would certainly be outraged by this practice today.) Anyway, the peeps grew up to be chickens. Dad chopped the head off of one chicken and the body kept going. He had to chase it down a hill. We had chicken for dinner that night. I remember not eating…
OMG! Who’s pet chicken got its head chopped off? Why (other than the fact I wasn’t born yet) have I not ever heard this story before? This is a big family story and I didn’t even know! Did mom eat it? I’m betting she didn’t.
Well, we didn’t eat my chicken, but I do remember Dennis telling me that dad planned to cook him up for dinner. Guess, it’s good mine got done in by that weasel. I may have been scarred for life!
Sounds like a cartoon….a very disturbing cartoon.
When I was four I had a mated pair of guinea fowl. I’d love to live somewhere that I could have a pair again.
Based on my family history with chickens, I would advice against it! LOL