The Diary of a Free-Range Chicken

With all the recent emphasis on the advantages to humans of consuming free range and organically-raised meat, I thought it might be helpful to present the opinion of one of the free range chickens itself on the subject. This has been made much easier due to the stunning discovery last month of the diary of one such chicken, which apparently had ranged widely over the rolling green hills in Central Oregon last year. The diary only came to light when Prof. Johannes Grackle of Innsbruck, one of the only people in the world with joint doctorates in Veterinary Medicine and Linguistics, came upon the faded diary when he was yodeling his way through the Oregon hills. Grackle, as you might recall, made headlines when he published his doctoral dissertation a decade ago, entitled, "Toward a Descriptive Grammar of Chickenscratch." Dr. Grackle informs us that the text, mostly scrawled on dirt, dirt which he photographed with a high intensity lens, was in a rather poor state of preservation. Thus, he had to brood over the text for weeks before suggesting a translation. He published his translation with the Chickenscratch on one side of the page and ancient Armenian on the other. When asked why he didn't translate the text into a modern language, Dr. Grackle responded, "Hm. I really don't know."

In any case, Dr. Amran Boohoogian has graciously translated the text for me into English, and I give it to you here. It consists of four fragments. The first describes the joy at the chicken's newly-found freedom when released onto the free range. The second records a religious revival among the free-range chickens, held on the night of the chickens' release. The third excerpt tells us about daily life among the free-range chickens. Finally, the fourth, which ends abruptly, describes a heated political meeting of the chickens. We don't know the name of our chick; Dr. Grackle has dubbed him "The Happy Scratcher." We abbreviate its name as "HS."

Text # 1

HS: "It is the most amazing feeling I have ever had. Just yesterday, I was cooped up with a passel of these gallinaceous goofballs, but now, I am free as a bird. My companions are gaily skipping and scratching all around me--Jersey Blues, Rhode Island Reds, Cornish Games, Golden Duckwings...[break in text]...it is almost as if I see fulfilled Jesus' words, 'Chickens will come from East and West, North and South, and sit at table in the Kingdom of God.' Or, at least, that is how I remember his words. Earlier today, I hied myself to the top of the highest hill, whence I looked down and saw the chicken farm, Happy Chickville, where I was born. I thought to myself, 'You miserable goober-chomping, mud-swilling, pencil-legged creatures.' But then I looked around me, waltzed through the waving grass, and promptly forgot life in the coop. I am so glad that my keeper decided to become converted to the virtues of free range chickens. No hormones up here, even though one of us, Chicken Roger Clemens, looks like he took hormone shots--though he denies it. A grander existence I cannot imagine..."

Text # 2

My Note: There was a break in the text here, which suggested to Dr. Grackle that time had passed between the scratching of text # 1 and this text. The text is in a different style from the first, almost as if it was the minutes of some kind of emotional meeting held by the chickens.

HS: "At the meeting tonight of dozens of fellows, several got up to express their gratitude to God for delivering them from the snare of their owner. Many recommended we sing a rousing chorus of what is getting to be our theme song: 'Home on the Free Range.' One of our companions raised the interesting theological issue: 'If God owns the cattle on 1000 hills (Ps. 50:10), how many chickens does He own?' Cackling and laughter filled the night air as chick after chick took to its feet to proclaim the wonder of the freedom that he felt. They all thanked God for American liberals, without whom they would be so fat that their legs would collapse under their weight. As if to show their vivacity and limberness, some rose up to dance. They begin to nod, spin, cackle and jerk, and they filled the night air with cockle-doodle-dos and satsified chirps. No one had ever seen such a happy gathering of fellow chicks.

Text # 3

Editor's Note: The text continues without a break, but it appears that the context is again quite different. It has led me (Dr. Grackle) to propose that this text arose out of a sort of "regular day" on the free range. Since historians have been greatly interested in the last few decades in the history of what you might call "common life," we are especially fortunate to have this text. It is our only window into what chickens on the free range do all day, except for the eating and wandering at will.

HS: "The next day about 50 or so of us met under a big oak tree to discuss how to spend our idyllic days. The wind gently wafted through the leaves, whispering an alluring tune to us. What was amazing to me was how our new-found free range experience has led us to all kinds of avenues for creativity. One chick is teaching a course on pottery; another wants to train us to walk straight ahead with both our eyes focused on the same item for three minutes. One of us, Ms. Cackle, wants to form a choir so we can work on tunes like "Chicken in the Straw," and "Mary Had a Little Chicken." Another person is teaching a course on how to clean your feathers, and yet another on basic techniques of strutting."

Text # 4

Editor's Note: This final text has a completely different "feel" to it. The tone is angry and abrupt. We can tell this is the case from the rapid upstroke at the end of each word--a sure sign that the claw was stuck in the dirt, a sign of chicken anxiety. It appears to record the thoughts of our author and others as they are planning some kind of revolt against the owners of Happy Chickville.

HS: 'No! I think the best thing to do is, under the cover of darkness, descend quietly on the farm, figure out a way to release our fellow chickens and then, en masse, waddle over to the owner's home, and cluck, claw and chirp him and his wife to death. We have dealt with highly abusive behavior over our lives; stories handed down from earlier generations tell us that this has been going on for quite some time. Unless we chickens rise to the occasion and take matters into our own hands, we will forever be pawns in the hands of the oppressive owners!' So spoke some of the young firebrands of our company. The older ones tried to dissuade them from rash action, but apparently to no avail. The revolution was brewing, and we were planning an attack that very evening on our master's estate. We told each other that our cause was just, that chickens, indeed, should rule the world, and that this one blow for freedom was what chickens the world over needed in order to be free. The cackles were rising in a deafending crescendo but ...What is that??? The owner.. Here he comes. With his minions! We can't escape. I am finish....

Editor's Note: The text breaks off at this point. We fear the worst, as no trace of rebellion or of the rebellious chicks remained. Another abortive revolution apparently. Was it cruel to raise the hopes of these chickens, only to see them dashed unceremoniously? Will the real revolution be coming in the future? We can only hope that HS is not the last chicken to scratch out its thoughts.

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