Lucretzia

“You’re not going to eat her?”

I was walking the rail trail with my two companions. My bulldog was cruising down the path in his custom-made wheelchair, and I was pushing a stroller with my chicken in her seat. I admit, we were probably not the family unit this older gentleman was expecting to see on his daily constitutional. 

“Well the two of them,” I nodded to my dog and the stroller, “are best friends. It would be kind of rude to eat her at this point.” The man looked at me with a smile that was a mix of bemusement and concern, and we went our separate ways.

This was not the first, or the last, time someone would need clarification on my intentions toward my companion chicken. Having a disabled dog is not unheard of, and while the reactions he gets vary wildly from pity to excitement, he is the extrovert I am not and wins friends instantly. Having a disabled chicken in a stroller, however, is never on anyone’s bingo card.

Chickens are not usually considered pets, let alone “inside animals.” People unfamiliar with my family or my occupation of animal caregiver took a minute to process the fact that I had a chicken living in my living room with free reign of the apartment. She didn’t even lay eggs! No one ever asked directly, but I could feel the unspoken question in the way they hesitated to continue the conversation: why would I have a chicken just . . . hanging out with me? What good was a chicken who didn’t lay eggs, whom I wasn’t going to eat, and who couldn’t even do “normal” chicken things like perch or graze?

There are plenty of philosophical and ethical reasons to continue caring for someone when they don’t provide services or goods. Unfortunately, those reasons aren’t often applied to birds (see the billions of chickens, turkeys, and ducks slaughtered and exploited every year in the US alone). This article isn’t about ethics, though. It is about my unique companion changing lives even after she is gone.

Lucretzia came to me when she was roughly a year old, and her hocks were fused at completely incorrect angles. While walking like a “normal” chicken was never going to happen, she was mobile and got around using her hocks, wings, and the tops of her feet. Moving took effort, but she had places to be.

Like any other person, she had opinions and quirks. She played with my colored pencils as I tried to use them, intent on removing the yellow pencil from my options. She would greet me in front of the couch in the evening, ready to watch Star Trek. She felt safest when she was underneath a little stool, or around my dog. The two of them would nestle in his bed, and she would begin to groom his fur, pecking and arranging his hair to her liking. He would then, in turn, make himself at home in her room—a pop-up children’s castle tent—and sniff out any of her leftover dinner. Lucretzia would tell on him with a specific vocalization, calling for me from another room to scold him. She did not hold a grudge, though: when he sneezed, she would give a short cluck—a “bless you,” if you will. 

Snack time was also a family activity—both the dog and Lucretzia learned the sound of the coconut whipped cream can and demanded their share. I don’t know if it was the taste or the texture, but Lucretzia never left any behind. Have you ever had a chicken stare at you and demand more whipped cream? Magical. 

Two videos: Lucretzia’s Dog Grooming, Lucretzia and Whipped Cream

Lucretzia and I took an online class together: Parrot Kindergarten (if you are interested in avian cognition, I highly recommend Jen Cunha’s work!). I figured any way I can enhance our communication would be a benefit to us both. She picked up on preference training very quickly. I had to modify the “which is favorite?” game so she couldn’t pick her favorite treat and then instantly swoop in for the other snack while I was preparing the next round.

Lucretzia shifted how I look at and sense the world. The first two years she lived with me, we didn’t have a yard that was safe for her to hang out in. When we finally had one, I remember her being outside in her therapy stand (a piece of equipment I fabricated to keep her stable and provide passive physical therapy), unusually alert and intent. I realized she was taking in the autumn leaves. The smells, sounds, and colors were new sensations to her. The fascination and contentment that followed her exploration will forever be one of my favorite memories, reminding me it is impossible to run out of experiences.

Noises and sounds have different meaning to me, too. Though it is usually considered background household noise, the refrigerator was her daily conversation partner. The “ca-clunk” the refrigerator made when turning the unit on and off had some kind of meaning to her, and she would respond to it with a soft “ba-bock” regardless of time of day. I now hear the cluck of the refrigerator and think it is a chicken in my kitchen.

The noise that truly opened possibilities came from another animal. I was listening to a radio story about dolphin communication (I believe it was this one). Clicks and squeaks were played in demonstration, and Lucretzia, without missing a beat, responded. I do not know what they were conveying to her, but I am so ready for the dolphin-chicken alliance joining the sea and rural lands of the world. 

Making sure she was comfortable was my daily concern, and it was trial and error finding what set up worked for both of us. I learned what shape and materials work best for bolsters. We discovered that a cat slow feeder dish was the best bowl for her to eat from. I used my knowledge of disabled dogs and devised a wheelchair for Lucretzia. (That later became her therapy stand, as Lucretzia did not think in a forward linear progression and therefore the concept of forward motion on wheels was frustrating.) I am now in the process of designing an adjustable, adaptable, and lightweight therapy stand or wheels that can be used for other birds—chickens, ducks, and turkeys. I hope to one day make the blueprints available for other humans to make a therapy stand or wheels for their companions. 

Lucretzia’s worth is not at all defined by what she did for others. However, I must credit her with the lessons that impact all animal relationships I have. In addition to developing the skills to help disabled birds, I learned that not sharing a language does not mean we don’t share thoughts, feelings, and information. That paying attention to your companion in conversation, in play, or at rest can be as insightful as a lecture. That while every being is individual, what you learn about one can help you understand another. Lucretzia’s habits and needs became so ingrained in me that when I see a hint of her behavior in another bird, I have an idea of what they are asking of me—do they want to be underneath a shade or on a different perch? Do they want to have their bowl in a different place? Are they bored and looking for mischief? Entertainment comes in all forms, and what one bird thinks is thrilling, another is bored with. Every other chicken I know loves a snuffle mat with grubbies. Lucretzia would like more whipped cream and colored pencils, please.

There’s a very special feeling I had when sharing space with, and caring for, a chicken in my house. There isn’t much information in the modern Western world about that living dynamic, so even though I definitely did not invent the concept, it felt like we were rewriting the expectations of what defines a companion and a family. Even people who care for chickens do not necessarily spend hours at a time simply coexisting, experiencing their nuances and quiet moments. To hear a chicken purr after being put to bed with a fresh warm blanket, or purr after you come home and settle down, or purr in your lap as they close their eyes and rest their beak on your hand, is a joy that could end all suffering and worries.

Plus, it is endlessly entertaining to remember that chickens are descendants of dinosaurs, and having a tiny T-Rex best friend who likes to snuggle with a bulldog is pretty hardcore.