Daily Poultry Survival Race

Free-range chickens at A Land of Grass don’t range very far this time of year.

In fact, they hang out in the barn, waiting for longer days and shorter nights.

I toss some grain to them and they come running, wings out, heads up, legs pumping to win the Daily Poultry Survival Race.

They remind of the day I manipulated the egg market.

When I lived near Whitehall, I sold eggs to the Bozeman Food Co-op. The price varied depending on supply, but it always covered my costs.

Until one fall when the manager informed me that the wintertime price would now be set far below the cost of production.

I said I would have to go home and kill my chickens. I couldn’t afford to keep them.

Tears welled up in her eyes.

She began to stutter.

The price would rise in the spring; couldn’t I keep them until then?

I explained that I had to feed and keep those chickens warm every single day. That became expensive without income to offset those costs.

Ten minutes later, I had a signed contract for all of my eggs at the highest price I ever received.

Those chickens won the race.

A couple of years later, 11 chickens lost the Daily Poultry Survival Race.

My son and I planned to move from Whitehall to Conrad.

He didn’t want to leave the only home he had known and I knew that a young boy on a ranch needed a dog.

Always a multi-tasker, I figured we could choose a dog from the pound. He would have a ranch dog and maybe learn a bit of compassion for unfortunate animals at the same time.

It took about 10 minutes for him to choose Brook.

She looked a lot like a bird dog, yet the pound manager assured us Brooke was a herding breed.

It really didn’t matter because my son wanted Brook regardless of her breed.

We brought her home.

The next day, while my son was at school, I needed to feed my cows.

Brook followed the tractor.

Until she ran directly under the front wheel. I slammed the brakes, knowing I couldn’t kill my son’s dog on the first day.

On the second day, when I fed, I left Brook in the yard, our den of safety.

When I returned, that den had turned into a war zone.

Dead chickens were scattered across the yard.

Brook smiled her satisfaction to me.

My brain bounced through all of the remedies for chicken-killing dogs: bullets, shock collars, leashes. None of those were immediate options.

I decided to create a negative consequence.

I dragged Brook by her collar to each dead chicken, whacking her with it while I scolded.

Feathers and blood flew.

Brook cowered at my feet.

Just when I was whacking Brook with the last dead chicken, my neighbor pulled up. He had a passenger I did not recognize.

I dragged Brook over to the pickup window.

My neighbor explained that he knew I had this place for sale and he thought his friend might be interested in buying it.

Then he said “Lisa, why are you covered in blood?”

I looked down at my jeans, soaked and stuck with remnants of feathers.

“Oh, I’ve been beating my dog with dead chickens,” I responded.

Then I glanced around with the eyes of a stranger.

Before I could explain, the passenger gagged.

I could hear him across the pickup.

My neighbor heard him, too, slipped the transmission into reverse and backed out of sight.

I didn’t sell my place in Whitehall that day, but Brook never killed another chicken.