Chicken Hawk

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• August 1, 2024

“Don’t pee on the American flag, it’s un-American!” I say to Leo and Crumb, the two dogs I’m out walking while dog sitting. I pull them away from the flag, staked in the ground. Of course, peeing in public as a dog isn’t just legal, it’s acceptable. But if I pull down my pants and alleviate myself, I’m weirdo at best, and a sexual predator at worst. What a world.

[Crumb and Leo]

One of the nicknames bestowed upon me when I was young was, “Chicken Hawk,” like the Looney Tunes character. Mostly because I was freakishly small, but had a large head and a demeanor that I was much larger than I was. In some ways, I guess I was kind of like Crumb, who weighs maybe five pounds. Crumb has the confidence of a pit bull. He is adorable.

Besides tending to the two dogs, who follow my every move closely, as far as sitting at my feet when I’m peeing, there are also 15 chickens in the yard. The chickens are relatively easy to manage. In the morning, I let them out of their coop and pour them some feed. The big ones are quick to start eating. The little ones seem to like roaming first. They spend the rest of the day roaming the property and little farm, picking at other things to eat, I guess. At nightfall, they return to the coop and I lock them in, so no raccoons will slaughter them. Usually, they all go in the coop on their own, though there are a couple of rebellious ones, the younger chicks, who sometimes I chase around and curse at while swatting myself in the face because of hunting mosquitos. “Goddamnit chickens, get in the goddamn coop with your sisters, I’m getting eaten alive by fuckin’ mosquitos out here,” I lamented as I chase them in circles around the coop.

The chickens give me about as much respect as Frog Horn Leg Horn.

At night, the dogs sleep in the bed with me. Leo at my feet. Crumb is usually snuggled up close. As much as he’s like a living stuffed animal, I sometimes worry about him sleeping so close next to me because he’s so small. I can cup his entire rib cage and feel his little happy heart beating. What if I rolled over and crushed him?

I did have a freak out moment when I was petting Crumb on the couch and saw a little bug in his white fur. It was so small, I failed to get it. I don’t think it was a tick, but I’m unsure if it was a flea. I took both the dogs outside and sprayed them with tick and flea spray (they didn’t care for this). I tried grooming them both a little, but I’m no Edward Scisscorhands with shears, so they just have a random chop job. I worried the bug may crawl into his ear and go to his brain. Or worse, the bug would crawl into MY ear and go to MY brain.

I’m used to being a night owl, but given the farm life I’ve been going to bed early with my book and rising at 7am to feed the animals. I have been eating well, sleeping well, and detoxing. Some days, I drive to Robert Moses early to get in a beach run. It’s pretty clear to me I’m not a farm girl. Not that that was ever really in question. I’m not even sure I’m a city girl these days. But I’ve always been a beach girl. That’s for damned sure.

The fresh eggs are a delightful perk of the chickens. I’ll cook them in various ways to keep myself from getting bored of any particular dish. Though not a Daisy Duke girl (but I would look great in those shorts), domestic life comes relatively easy. There’s a hope that someday I’ll have someone to share my life with… only to curse at them for not listening to me, instead of fifteen chickens.