Published in On Our Selection News April 3, 2014

Old Maguire, apparently, has a farm.

On Sunday afternoon, I made a shocking discovery: there had been two sheep living up the back of my yard for close to a month and I had absolutely no idea. Self-absorbed and short- sighted, I spent weeks oblivious to the fluffy friends with whom I was sharing an address. Over the years, Dad has had a number of farm animals sharing our backyard, with many chickens, a few lambs and the infamous “Cody the Calf” calling the Maguire abode home. Despite living in a rural area my en- tire life and my experiences with the various farm animals Dad has impulsively invited to stay with us over the years, I know very little about farming. In fact, I often find myself having to pretend I know what farmers are talking about when we speak of such things. It’s reached a point where my interviews with farmers are referred to as another episode of “Dannielle Pretends” by my mocking colleagues.

As my farming knowledge is so low, I tend to respond to livestock based on emotions. So I was thrilled with the discovery. The two new additions to the family are cute, come up to the fence to say hi and will eventually make for a delicious roast lunch. Another benefit: Dad allocated a large portion of our massive deluxe chicken coop wonderland as a sheep coop. Why am I thrilled? Because there’s only one chicken living in that coop, and that chicken is a cold and callous murderer who does not deserve all that space.

While I can’t tell you anything about Summer crops, I have learnt a few things about chickens: namely, that chickens should never be trusted. While I’ve yet to read Lord of Flies, from what I’ve gathered of the plot, I believe the conditions in the coop are similar to those on that fictional island. Things start off fine when there’s a new batch of hens, but they inevitably descend into madness. Too many times have I been scarred by the sight of the hen-hate victims, pecked to a point of mutilation. They would run to get feed, but due to being targets of group attacks, their limbs didn’t work properly, so they limped erratically towards food, bouncing like a ball of misery with the occasional feather sticking out (the chickens picked out each other’s feathers to add insult to injury). Gradually the chicken population would dwindle, as after each death the brood would turn their screeching anger onto a new victim, leaving a lone survivor. Thus, the top chook has claimed her territory. And the bastard doesn’t even lay any eggs.

But now, this chicken will have to pay penance for its evil. It will have to watch the sheep frolick about in the lush green grass it ended so many lives to dominate. The sweet smell of justice will fill the nostrils of this diabolical bird, and it will be the scent of sheep poop. The roost will be ruled not by a fiendish fowl, but two cloud-like saints.

And while I’ve never been one to play with my food, I may even just join my fleecy besties in enjoying that space and freedom just to rub it in. The pecking order has just been reversed.