I remember seeing something white moving, rolling around on the shoulder of the freeway. Whatever it was, it was alive, and not a plastic bag or something. This was back in the day when, as kids, all you did on drives was look out the window, colors zooming by. So something bright and white would catch your eye for sure. I couldn’t tell what it was at first, but it was moving. I pressed my nose and looked harder, and as we passed, I saw a little head and wings flapping. It was a chicken, and it looked like it was trying to scoot, maybe flop itself, but in the wrong direction — towards the freeway. It was one of those broiler chickens. Ya know the kind that was probably packed in a semi-truck on top of hundreds of other chickens, on its way to becoming a pack of breasts or thighs. But somehow this one had gotten out. I don’t know how it managed, since those trucks are so high on the sides, and chickens can’t fly very well. It seemed impossible.
I have no idea why my mom agreed to turn around; it was very out of character, but she did. She took the next exit in a big round circle, back onto the freeway, and then pulled over in front of the chicken. Maybe all the shouting and crying about how “we couldn’t leave it there to die” had something to do with it. My sisters and I were very convincing, emotionally. She told us to stay in the car. And I remember watching her go to the trunk, grab a sweatshirt, walk over, lean down, and wrap up a very excited chicken. Her face as she walked back seemed frozen and quite shocked by what she was doing. When she handed it over to us, she was a little out of breath. The way you are when you’ve done something a little dangerous. We positioned it between us, like a little miracle. The whole ride home, all three of us girls whispered and cooed over that chicken. We named it Charlie. Its eye was all bloodied, and its wing was definitely broken, so we just carefully, gently stroked its back and told it, “everything was going to be okay, it was safe now. It was such a lucky chicken.”
When we got home, Charlie lived in a box in the kitchen, and she would cluck in the morning, talking to us while we made breakfast. Her injuries meant she was touch and go there for a while, and she’d definitely never fly again. She stayed in the box for a week or so. We would hand-feed her and pet her, and talk to her, encouraging her along in her recovery. Until one morning, we came in to find her standing in front of the refrigerator, waiting for us. Charlie LOVED the refrigerator. She was a smart chicken, and she knew that’s where all the good things came from: carrot greens, lettuce, bits of apple. Whenever you opened the door, Charlie would cluck up a storm and turn in awkward, excited floppy circles. Soon, she was trying to follow us into our rooms, and that’s when my mom said it was time for Charlie to move outside.
But since Charlie had known the joys of living in the house, and the delight of the fridge, she was always hanging out, right there by the back door. We made a bed for her there, right on the step. Surprisingly, our dogs didn’t bother with her. Charlie seemed to make them a bit nervous. Maybe it was the rolling limp, a bit unnerving, that freaked them out. On sunny days, my mom would leave the back door open, and we would come into the kitchen and find Charlie just sitting by the refrigerator, clucking. We’d hear my mom, shooing her, “Charlie, get outside!” and we’d giggle. Sometimes I’d sneak her something from the crisper, sitting on the step, stroking her back, and I’d whisper in her ear, “You’re such a lucky chicken, Charlie, such a brave, lucky chicken.”
This story is dedicated to my Mom. While this was the first time she conceded to bring an injured animal home, it would certainly not be the last.
Yes, great story, there’s so much here. Of course it makes me think of Zippy (have you read A Girl Named Zippy? If not, you must!) and her beloved chicken.
I love your stories about your childhood.
Charlie, the Brave & Lucky Chicken. A children's story? Is it really about a chicken? or about a mother?