Part of Isaac’s training is that he has a list of daily
chores he must check off before engaging in any activity that could remotely be
construed as being “fun”. The list is
short and relatively uncomplicated, although the simplest of tasks can prove to
be complicated for an intelligent child prone to weasel out of anything and
everything he has no interest in doing.
It includes such things as making up his bed, doing his homework,
unloading the dishwasher, etc. And while
few kids these days have such a list, it would be reasonable for me to assume
the boy is learning about hard work sufficiently so. But I was raised by a man who taught me the
value of hard work by giving me the impossible task of pulling every weed in a
hundred plus acre peanut field, so I’m prone to believe I should pile on.
And so, after much scheming and plotting, I devised a plan
to put my son to work as a chicken farmer.
We have a lot plenty big enough for the dog, the kids, a garden and
a chicken house, and my little hometown doesn't levy unreasonable restrictions against its inhabitants as did my old subdivision in Arizona, which forbade the practice of raising livestock in one's backyard. As I pondered my ingenious scheme I thought
to myself, “that’ll teach him some responsibility.” I pictured him waking at
the crack of dawn every morning, feeding the birds and gathering their eggs in
time for breakfast omelets. I further
reasoned that my little “life lesson” would provide my son with enough spending
money so as to keep me in the black for years to come. Then I just got silly, imagining that his improved work ethic would result in his eventual acceptance into Harvard Law School and, with a little luck, perhaps he would even claw his way into the Oval Office, where he would publicly thank his Dad for nudging him in the right direction. As with any great scheme I've concocted over the years, I once again amazed myself.
Funny how the little ideas that tend to pop into my head
rarely manifest themselves as easily and quickly as they’re conceived, and by now, I should temper my
enthusiasm with the memories of “brilliant ideas” of yesteryear. But given that I’m a slow learner, I set out
to create a chicken habitat for the reluctant young entrepreneur anyway. I cleaned up an old fish house on my property
- a little shanty of a building that was previously used for cleaning fish by
the former owner – and prepared it to house the new additions to our family. I fenced in the area around the building,
creating a nice little chicken yard and proceeded to order the chicks. They arrived early on a Saturday morning,
several weeks later – all 27 of them – stuffed inside a container roughly the
size of a cigar box. At first, Isaac was
excited and welcomed his new business venture with open arms. But by lunchtime, he had completely lost interest.
And being the task master that I am, I threatened him with
every kind of restriction known to man, and he dutifully complied. A week later, however, he awoke to a grizzly
scene of chicken homicide (my wife suggested that I refer to it as an incident
of fowl play, but being unwilling to expose myself to the potential humiliation
that I was sure would ensue, I opted for the non-pun route, but agreed to give
it an honorable mention nevertheless).
Of the 27 chicks that we received from the postmaster, only 15
remained. The remains of their fallen
compatriots, a handful of feathers and few drops of blood, lay eerily on the
plywood floor of the coop, and my son instantly re-engaged in his chickens, now fewer in
number. After all, what little boy
doesn’t want a good murder mystery to solve, even if the victim is a bird.
Assured that the culprit must be a fox, we shored up our
fence and set a trap for the murderer. A
few days later, my son met me at the breakfast table with more bad news: 7 more
dead birds and no fox in the trap. And
then there were 8. He nearly choked
on his excitement, which I thought somewhat odd, but not too odd. After all, he is a red blooded American boy
thirsting for adventure and a hint of danger, just like his brethren. So we reset our trap and moved it to a
different location. For a couple of
nights, all was well with our chicks. A
few mornings later, however, my son came bounding through the door with even more
excitement than the first 2 times.
“Five!” he screamed. “There’s
only five of ‘em left!” and this time he had the slightest trace of a grin on
his face. Then it hit me. He wasn’t excited about the mystery
surrounding these avian murders. He was just glad to see this new burden
slowly lifting off his shoulders by a hungry fox.
Eventually, we caught and sufficiently punished the chicken
slayer, and with a slight tip of the cap to the PETA crowd, I won’t go into
detail on this point other than to say that I’m confident his killing days are
forever behind him. Isaac, still
reluctant to own up to his responsibility, has to be nudged (sometimes not so
gently) to feed and care for his hens, who have returned the favor by withholding
their eggs from him. Nevertheless, the
responsibility is firmly his and his alone and will be until the next fox comes
along and puts an end to his egg farming days once and for all.
