A long, long time ago when I was young, my mother would order and receive 50 tiny, yellow chicks to sell or for our use. One memorable spring, when I was a teen, she got her usual box of 50 yellow peepers but in the mix, to her surprise, was one lone black chick. How that ever happened we will never know but it would not become a good mix.
A few days later I got the job of going to feed the chicks and heard some strange cries coming from somewhere. I looked around and finally discovered this pitiful little black chick hiding under some pieces of wood. I picked him up and found his entire back had been pecked open and bleeding by the gang of yellow chicks who did not think he belonged there. Who says only humans discriminate? Of course I quickly picked up the miserable little creature and took it home to nurse it back to health. My mother had a big jar of goose grease that she swore could cure anything, so that is what I used on his back. In a few days he was fine, so that is a good thing to know. I named my new pet Chico, made him a home in an old box I found and he got star attention from then on.
Chico and I spent a wonderful summer that year, playing tag in the yard, back and forth, and other games as well. When he was tired, and I had to go and do other chores, he would perch on my arm and put his little head in my shirt pocket, close his eyes and snooze away.
It was not long before my little friend was growing by leaps and bounds. He was actually bigger than the other yellow ones. The day soon came when my mother lay down the law and said that big chicken had to go where he belonged. There was no way I could get her to change her mind, so Chico was banished back to the chicken coop again. The only good thing was that by now, he was almost twice the size of the yellow ones and he could hold his own in a fight. I had long ago found out you did not win too many battles with my mother.
Our Chico was a very clever chicken because in the morning when my mother opened the chicken coop door, our smart one beat her back to our yard and spent the day there. He felt, probably, that he belonged to a better place, which was not with the other chickens. So we continued our peaceful days in the sun and our fun times in our yard.
Soon, summer was ending and it was time for me to go away to school many miles away. I returned home for Thanksgiving to a horrible discovery. Chico, my wonderful summer friend, had been sacrificed and had become the “Thanksgiving Turkey!” To my mother, a chicken is a chicken, so what is the problem? There was mutiny that year … none of the younger members at this dinner ate at that table. It was not a happy time for any of us younger crowd.
My heart was broken – I loved my mother but I never quite forgave her for doing the unthinkable and making Chico the “piece de resistance” on our Thanksgiving table that year. I have never forgotten my very special friend Chico who brought so much joy to a summer at the farm. Thanks to him it was a very special time when a little black chicken came and enriched my life forever.
Ada Curial, St. Albert
