The great chicken debate

Let’s get one thing straight: I don’t mean to ruffle any feathers. It’s just that – seriously? The very fabric of the global economy is unraveling before our very eyes, and we’re embroiled (no pun intended) in a debate about poultry? I guess it should come as no surprise from the same town that brought us such recent scandals as bulbouts, newspaper condos and tubing police.

Don’t get me wrong. I’d take these topics over financial analysis and Middle Eastern affairs any day (sorry, Mr. Perlmutter). But, haven’t those poor chickens been maligned enough?

Isn’t it already a slap in the face that they ended up with the short end of the ornithological genetics stick (short stubby wings that just happen to be perfect for dipping and deep frying, not so good for flying)? Add to this that they are the constant butt of ridicule, stupid jokes and tired clichés (a few of which may, apologetically, slip in here). This is to say nothing of the embarrassing references to their excrement as a euphemism for cowardice or the fact that they can run around without their heads attached, which makes them seem, well, stupid (if not extremely creepy.) And Chicken Little hasn’t exactly done much for morale. Basically, chickens are the Rodney Dangerfields of the domesticated livestock kingdom. I mean, what other animal is impaled upon a can of beer (almost always cheap, I might add) and roasted over an open flame while people gather around and chit chat about sports? Downright barbaric, I tell you.

Which is why I have decided to enter the fray on the chickens’ behalf. If this downtrodden slave to the feed trough is good enough for Col. Sanders, a decorated American hero, then it’s good enough for me. And my back yard. And my neighbors’ back yard.

Sure, there is the probability of off-gassing or the occasional large, wild predator stopping by for a blood bath. And yes, there is the argument that chickens are the gateway to bigger and more advanced foul: turkeys, ducks, and that god awful abomination, the turducken.

But let’s face it, the smell emanating from the neighbors’ yard (you know, the one with five dogs and three cats) isn’t exactly pleasant come mid-August. Nor is that compost heap, which could conveniently be downsized or even replaced by our feathered insinkerators. And while I am still not completely convinced that big kitty cats won’t frequent local chicken coops like drunks at the Taco Bell drive-thru on a Saturday night, I am willing to reserve judgment.

However, there are still others who worry Durango’s upscale, cosmopolitan image may be tarnished by such hickish, hillbilly ways. They would rather starve a slow, expensive, prepared-food death than step in a little bird doo or bear the thought of overalls making a comeback. To this, I have one word: Albuquerque. As in, the closest large metropolitan area, which is still a good 3½ hours away, thus, qualifying us as hicks (sorry).

Of course, what someone does with their chickens in the privacy of their own yard is entirely up to them. Whether you want to use them for meat, eggs or dress them up like the Harlem Globetrotters and teach them to peck for baskets, is your own business. But rest assured, their existence will be better than that in those massive chicken ghettos posing as feedlots. For heavens sake, doesn’t anyone recall the chicken scene in “Napolean Dynamite?” (And speaking of sharp talons, from what I hear, that’s a total myth.)

Of course, if you opt for the carnivore route, be forewarned. Despite what you were brought up to believe, chicken meat does not come neatly plucked and sealed in plastic wrap and Styrofoam. But unless you’re trying out for an elite military squadron or training for the next “Rocky” sequel, you will probably not have to handle this job with your bare hands. In fact, you may even be able to pay someone to do the grim reaping for you (although I’m sure some meat harvesting purists will balk at this cop out.) Nevertheless, if the thought of “Fluffy” as fricassee is too much to bear, I hear chickens make great outdoor pets. And all those eggs could come in handy at your next “Cool Hand Luke” party (which reminds me I’d like to give a shout-out to Paul Newman, wherever he may be.)

OK, so there may be a steep chicken-rearing learning curve at first, especially for those of us who still think the Easter Bunny lays eggs (he gets them from chickens, just like everyone else, duh.) But if Durango wants to be the sustainable community it is striving to be, then perhaps it is time to start dancing the chicken dance, even if it means occasionally coming cheek to beak with our supper. And not to worry, chances are if it looks like a chicken and clucks like a chicken, it’ll taste like chicken, too.

– Missy Votel