Coop_ A Year of Poultry, Pigs, and Parenting - Michael Perry [101]
Miller looked at what I’d done, hooted, and said, “SWEET MOTHER-OF-PEARL!” Then he brightened. “Say! I’ve got a trailer! I got it at a thrift sale! I’m going to use it to haul wood behind my four-wheeler! It’s right out back!”
Mills led me out behind the barn past several of his salvage piles and then pointed proudly at what appeared to be the remnants of a lawn-tractor accident in the weeds. Upon closer examination I identified the wreckage as a trailer because it had a hitch and two rubber tires, but the frame was bent, the plywood bed was delaminating, and the taillights were shattered. You could just envision the cop who pulled me over flipping his notebook open and getting comfortable before writing up all the violations embodied in this one little tangle.
But I didn’t have much choice. We hooked the trailer to the van, strapped the chicken tractor to it, and I went on my way. Before I left, Mills and I came to an agreement on our story should I get stopped. I would tell the officer I had just purchased the trailer and was taking it home to make repairs. We actually rehearsed our story and the price—$85. You know, in case I got pulled and the officer decided to check my story. Contingency planning, you know. I like to think I respect the law enough not to feed them some silly half-baked story. I also strapped and re-strapped. I call this the “I-tried” strapping method. Yah, it’s a tenfold rolling violation, Officer, but I tried.
I kept checking my rearview. In Mondovi I stopped at the hardware store to buy a chicken waterer and a feeder designed to be screwed on the bottom of a mason jar. Outside, noticing a couple of big-rig truckers checking their loads, I did a little circle around mine, snugging and twanging at the straps and checking the tires. I appeared pathetic and responsible.
Despite the scrap-yard trailer, the chicken tractor rode well, and soon I was at Billy’s place. He was out back working on a chicken coop of his own. Several weeks ago Billy had bragged to me about his big score: just when he was trying to decide how to go about building a coop, someone whose kids had outgrown their backyard playhouse said he could have the structure. “It’s free!” he said at the time. “All I gotta do is move it over here and drag it out back.”
Well, yes. That was weeks ago. He decided to put it on a concrete pad. He decided to insulate. He decided to redo the roof. He decided he should repaint the siding. He and his wife painted the interior, then decided the color was chicken unfriendly and repainted it. When I get there today he is burying chicken wire in the dirt to prevent predators digging under. He is shirtless and pouring sweat. Billy is a big man and not well suited to heat. Since he got his “free” coop, he has made more trips to Menards than your average subdivision contractor and has had at least one nasty incident involving tin snips. Billy is one of the gentler friends of my acquaintance, but when I find him out back today, sweaty and sticky beside the free coop that has now easily cleared four figures, he looks at me and hisses, “I am ready to stop preparing for chickens and just watch chickens!” I have abridged the quote, leaving out at least one contraband word.
He and Margie lead me to the garage, where the chicks—I’m not sure if you could still call them chicks; they are a month old, and mostly transitioned from fluff to feathers—are in the same plastic wading pool where I saw them with Amy, only they’ve grown and gotten more rambunctious and hard to keep in the pool. We transfer our dozen to a cardboard box lined with wood shavings. I load them in the back of the van and am on my way.
The trailer holds up fine, and I make it home without being arrested. Amy is visiting relatives and the baby is asleep, so it is just Anneliese who comes out for a look. It’s late, so rather than try out the chicken tractor, we just transfer them to the old pump house (where I’ve rigged a temporary cage and roosts), give them feed and water, close the door, and leave