Thank You, Rufus!

Thank You, Rufus!

The Chicken Chronicles

©2009 by Alice Walker

Chapter 8

I must once again interrupt the strict chronology of these tales to report yet another thrilling event. It has to do with Rufus, black and white Barred Rock Extraordinaire, otherwise known as Juancho. Juancho (rhymes with Pancho) is the name given Rufus by my small friends, J and K. When their mother told me about it, I had to laugh. What they identified in Juancho and I identified in Rufus was the same quality of rooster-ism. Juancho/Rufus is always the first to greet any visitor to the chicken yard, the first to fluff out increasingly wide shoulders and wings, the first to peck at one’s hands, if one is suspected of carrying something to eat, the first to peck at one’s knees for some reason I have yet to discern. It’s Rufus who has jumped up at me when I’ve made a startling appearance behind a bundle of straw. And Rufus who has nipped my fingers repeatedly when I’ve offered cracked corn. I now wear gloves, when I can find them. It is Rufus who stands guard at the chicken size door, eyeing any intruder relentlessly. Rufus and Agnes lost their “brother” Bobbie to a bobcat; s/he was every bit as wary and contentious as they. More about this later. Many times I have needed to use a stern voice and manner with Rufus and Agnes: they are such firm believers in enforcing the pecking order they constantly terrorize the other chickens. Roosters they are, surely.

And yet.

Coming home recently from a trip to the Far East: Atlanta and New York; where strangers and friends alike seem to be doing very well, I went immediately to visit the girls and Rufus and Agnes. While in the Far East I was honored with a medal (I talked about my chickens); I was on a panel with truly illustrious Americans whose very names made some in the audience weep (I talked about my chickens); I was part of a fundraiser for one of the oldest and finest feminist bookstores in the world, Charis, in Atlanta (I spoke about my chickens); in New York, at the fabulous Rubin Museum of Tibetan Art I was interviewed onstage about Carl Jung’s astonishing, recently published, Red Book (I don’t believe I was able to find anything to say about my chickens, but I could be wrong). Anyway, they were much on my mind and I was anxious to see them. I brought pears. Entering the yard I was once again charmed by their unique sound. The queraling, but also something that I resonated with: “Awwwh, hohohohoho.” This was something I could learn rapidly and we could join in a chorus of together, which we did.

As usual I started by counting everybody. There are twelve chickens. I counted eleven. Where was the other chicken? With a feeling of suspense, I opened the People door and went inside. There sat Rufus in a nest. Rufus, I said, what’s up, are you sitting in there to keep warm? It had been and was still, quite cold. Rufus paid me no mind. I went about my tasks of scraping poop and turning over straw. I began collecting eggs. Eight eggs, one of them palest green! So the Ameraucaunas are beginning to kick in, I thought, gleefully. But also pondering a visit to my eldest brother’s house while in the Far East of Georgia. He’d had guests, three white women who, in the Georgia of his youth, would never have been friends with him and his wife and never would have visited him politely in his home and never called him Mr. Fred. We started talking about: yes, chickens. One of them had Ameraucaunas. I was too interested. Only her husband refused to eat the green eggs. We had a few rounds of what can be done about such husbands. But more importantly, what can be done about green (and blue) eggs. We both loved the very idea of it, we said, taking a wonderful Sisterhood is Powerful sort of stance.

So while I was admiring the green egg, Rufus gave a smart cackle and rose from the nest. Expecting nothing but the white massage ball I’d purchased from my chiropractor as a fake egg to encourage laying in the nest, I was shocked to see a brown egg. I reached over and picked it up. Still warm. Rufus!

Rufus, I said, going to the door, Thank you! What an amazing spirit you are. So strong and aggressive. A bit pushy, “protective,” and dominating of the flock….and you lay eggs, too.

Paying me no attention whatsoever, Rufus went over to where Gertrude Stein and Babe II were pecking at half a pear. Fiercely pecking Gertrude S. until she fled and kicking at Babe II until she shrieked, Rufus squatted over the pear, which was soon gobbled to the core. Turning about inside the chicken house I noted Agnes of God settling in the same nest Rufus vacated. Sure enough, within a few minutes, while I discreetly found chores to do outside, this “rooster” also laid a warm brown egg. Looking incredibly capable, she descended from the nest and joined Rufus in his pecking and butting and scratching of the other chickens. I broke this up, of course, took down my green stool from its place in the rafters of the chicken house, sat down on it and gave them a good talking to about their insensitive and deeply regrettable behavior.

They ignored me, and instead went to look in the nest from which I’d taken their eggs. They did not seem at all amused that they were gone.

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