DARWIN FARMS

  One benefit of living in the country is the ability to raise livestock, indulge in animal husbandry or just have enough room for your favorite cat Cheeky to come and go as he pleases. I know plenty of people who raise critters: Andy and Polly- ducks, Brett and Sarah- chickens, turkeys and pigs, Josh- sheep, llamas, chickens and goats, Butch- ostriches, camels, ponies, cows and other mystery creatures, Nick and Christy- chickens, Ambika and Carlos- rabbits and squirrels, and Samm- chickens, rabbits, a cat and a Lassie dog. Of this bunch of “farmers” only Sarah and Brett are market farmers who make a buck, raising and butchering their animals for the fancy French restaurant table. The rest are (like me) not interested in killing their furry and feathered friends. We just like the byproducts: bunny fur, eggs, dog yarn for hats or simply love the company. I have no qualms trying to arrow a buck, but I can’t wring a rooster’s neck…especially when I named him.

      You may be surprised to learn that I’ve also tried my hand at boutique farming. It never goes well. My first attempt at raising chickens was tied to an art installation I displayed at The Old Shul for Social Sculpture titled Roost X. This piece involved offering up two dozen hens and six roosters for adoption. The rule was simple— you had to adopt said bird and promise not to kill it. Turned out the hens I purchased from Murray’s Chicken were bred to have giant breasts and short life spans. NOT to kill the hens would be cruel. I changed the rule. Now you had to promise to kill them to adopt. The roosters, that I purchased from Majestic Farm, were another story. Given the opportunity they could live long lives. Any hen that wasn’t “adopted” for the table, we butchered and ate. The roosters I adopted and saved.

    My farming skills are uneven at best. The roosters roamed the churchyard during the day and slept in The Lion of Judah cage at night. When I remembered, I locked them in. When I forgot, the coyotes had a field day. Even under these extreme conditions one rooster (attacked repeatedly) survived. I named him Uncle Samm. Wise to the death trap that the lion cage had become, he roosted in the tree over my woodpile. He became a beloved pet, jumping for hotdog rolls and entertaining tourists with his friendly antics. Then, late last winter during a blizzard, instead of roosting in the tree he went back in the cage. I didn’t realize he had changed his roost routine until it was too late. The coyote tracks and feathers told the sad story. Uncle Samm was gone.

    Hearing of my loss the photographer Noah Kalina (another rooster lover) offered up a half dozen of his birds to replenish my decimated flock. They didn’t last a week. That’s it for me and farming. As much as I love seeing birds scratching and pecking amongst my sculptures, I can’t justify tending the flock—just to feed the local predator population. I admit it. I’m a lousy farmer and steward of livestock. My cavalier attitude of “survival of the fittest,” does not work. Even a magnificent cock with two inch spurs and all the experience of a veteran soldier, like Uncle Samm, is no match for a hungry pack of coyotes. 

    These days I leave the raising of livestock to the rest of the congregation, except when Samm  goes out of town. This can also be problematic. Her old cat MO, repeatedly attacked by Cheeky, died on my watch. It could’ve been suicide. As a kitten Cheeky was relentless. Then there was Squeaker the little one legged rooster who went feet (foot) first out the coop. I’m trying to do better. Samm’s in Sweden as I write this. Don’t worry honey. So far so good. I did a head count this morning. All accounted for. Lassie says, “Come home.”