I feed them. I water them. I protect them from harm.
Okay, sometimes I kill them and eat them, but technically they don’t know that. So why do they all hate me?
These are my latest babies. I’m down to four, one died under mysterious circumstances but I definitely didn’t do it. They’re cute and fluffy and they’ve been around humans since they hatched and none have ever harmed them. But they think I’m the Big Scary Monster.
These are Landlady’s Brahmas, plus a couple of Rhode Island Reds. They’ve known me since they were pullets. I come to them twice daily. I feed them. I give them treats. I speak to them softly. They think I’m the Antichrist.
These are the Red Ladies, my own laying hens in the Fortress of Attitude. These, at least, appear happy to see me when I show up in the afternoon. Until I actually enter the yard, of course. Really they’re happy to see the coffee can full of scratch. Because they think I’m the Devil Incarnate.
Same deal, of course. I’ve never harmed one of these chickens. But there’s no buying their trust.
I really don’t get it.
Sorry about the untimely demise of one of them, but your remaining pullet-critters seem to be growing up amazingly fast. May they never crow.
Yeah, they’re supposed to be sexed and definitely female. Otherwise I’d have gotten at least half again as many, planning to eat anybody who crowed.
I’ll still do that last thing.
Chickens don’t trust you, in spite of how well you have behaved towards them?
Sounds like they are republicans, or libertarians, or something.
If they were Democrats, they’d trust you in a minute.
. . . as long as you keep the free food, shelter, and care coming.
It was the same with me when we had chickens. Oh, they’d flock to the sound of the shaken corn bucket. Otherwise, I was the dangerous ogre who struck terror in their hearts at first sight. Maybe it was because I came around and stole their unhatched youngun’s every day…
My daughter, on the other hand, was the Chicken Whisperer. They’d run up to her and jump in her lap if she sat down.
If they get to liking you, you’ll end up with kitchen poop on your doorstep.
Since you obviously haven’t (yet) done anything bad to those pullets, it’s pretty obvious that they are born with their tiny brains hard-wired to fear “the big scary man”. Since your hard-wired genetic heritage mandates your role as “the big scary man” in their existence, I wouldn’t take their lack of affection and gratitude personally.
Because an adult chicken brain is the size of a pea? And it isn’t really used. Google “Mike the Headless Chicken”.
If they liked you they would make better pets.
If they were better pets, more people would have issues eating them.
If people had issues eating them, they would probably evolve to be better pets.
Chicken is tasty, no body better make them into good pets!
Very Republican of you, Joel, wanting so desperately to be liked…..
For some equally inexplicable reason, chickens love me. Whenever I visit a friend or farm that keeps chickens, the hens all come running to me, as if they expect me to feed them. I’ve never seen them before.
This happens so consistently several people have remarked about it. I would think I’m at least as much a Big Scary Monster as Joel, but the chickens have their own opinions.
Hey.
They’ve seen what you do to small creatures like mice and chipmunks and pack rats and ground squirrels. Then there’s the fact that you smell like Ghost and Little Bear. Smart chickens, if you ask me…
}:-]