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“Well, it’s just not easy to have a relationship with a chicken”, my friend concluded as we sat around the table comparing chicken stories. (Yes, we really were.)

“I guess I will have to disagree,” I said, images surfacing from my own childhood. “I had a wonderful relationship with a little red rooster. His name was Red, of course. I was about six years old….” I had almost forgotten.

The mailman had delivered the cardboard box while I was staying the weekend with my grandparents. And what a box it was! The whole box was bursting with ear-shattering shrill “cheeps”, and it was full of small holes through which tiny beaks frantically poked. Grandma’s batch of spring chicks had arrived! She carefully set the noisy box in the middle of the living room floor where I eagerly helped her open it.

“Handle them gently now,” Grandma cautioned me as I dipped my hands into the box of “cheepers.” One at a time I cupped a soft yellow ball of fluff and tenderly held it to my cheek. I had never felt anything so soft. Then, very carefully, I set it back into the box, only to pick up another one. Most were eager to get back in the box, not sharing the tenderness that I felt—all except for one. The moment I picked him up, I knew he was special out of the dozens of others. He tilted his tiny head, looked me straight in the eye, then snuggled down into my cupped hands and began to cheep contentedly. His eyes began to close as he continued to cheep softly, then more softly, until he was asleep. Bonding was immediate.

I asked Grandma if this one could be mine when I came to visit. She was reluctant, I could tell. “I don’t want you to get attached….” She began. “Oh, I won’t; I won’t get attached, Grandma, please,” I begged.

“Well, all right, I guess.” Grandma finally gave in. “But I just don’t want her to make a pet of it and have her heart broken…” I overheard Grandma tell my mother before we left.

Each time we went to Grandma’s house, I would run out to the chicken yard to get my chick. I never had a problem picking him out of all of the others, which amazed the rest of the family. But I saw him as an individual, just as unique as people are each unique.

As the weeks and months went by, I watched the tiny chicks grow, replacing their yellow down with real feathers, slick and brownish-red. My Red had become a handsome rooster, strutting with the best of them. But, he still seemed to enjoy our time together. He would sit contentedly on my lap as I stroked him, slowly closing his eyes, drooping his head down near his wing until he was asleep.

One afternoon while I was sitting on the back steps with Red napping on my lap, Grandma brought out a small red plastic ring. “Let’s put this on Red so we can tell him from the others next week.” She said as she slipped it onto his leg.

The next week several of my relatives went out to help Grandma and Grandpa with the butchering. It is always a busy, even hectic time of year on a farm, no matter the size. Extra hands are always welcome. My family couldn’t be there until early afternoon, but there would still be plenty of work to do.

As I burst into the house, my grandmother and one of my aunts came out of the kitchen with somber faces. Behind them I could see rows of quart jars of freshly canned chicken on the kitchen counter. My aunt had tears in her eyes as she handed me a red plastic ring.

“I’m so sorry, Honey, I didn’t know that he was a pet. I should have asked about the ring on his leg, but things were so hectic…” I looked at the canning jars sterilizing on the stove, the pressure cooker steaming on the back burner, and the cut up chicken meat waiting in large pans by the sink. They didn’t have to tell me; I knew.

I was just a little kid, but I wasn’t naïve about the origins of Grandma’s Sunday chicken dinners, or Mom’s delicious chicken and noodles, or my aunt’s wonderful chicken and dumplings. I understood and accepted the way of farm life. But, I also knew that I would still miss Red.

A friend recently told me about her childhood poultry pal, Alice Blue Gown. He was a blue-black rooster, named before gender identification was possible. Because their chickens were allowed to roam free, Alice Blue Gown followed my friend around like a puppy. He also liked to fly up to perch on her shoulders as she played in the yard. Since she has no memory of what happened to him, she strongly suspects that he startled her unsuspecting dad one time too many by trying to perch on his shoulders when he was busy with chores. She does remember that they ate a lot of chicken, however.

Anyway, my friend and I agreed that there is a philosophical, albeit practical, view of such matters that we develop growing up, especially while chewing on a crispy fried chicken drumstick. And, even though I located my link in the food chain, I remember Red fondly, and I still consider telling chicken jokes a CHEEP shot.