If I want to speak with my chickens, I’ll do it in person

There are some phone conversations I just want to avoid. I’m generally a convivial person. I enjoy the company of others and live for the free exchange of ideas. But let’s be real, some people are just … boring.

Even people who generally aren’t boring can seem that way on the telephone. I think it’s one of the reasons texting has become so popular; you’re forced to sum things up in a few sentences. There’s not all the messing about with “So, how have you been?” and “Are Sally and the kids doing well?” and “Did you hear there are missiles headed for Hawaii?”

With texting, you’re in and out of the conversation in a hurry and can get on with the important stuff, like marathon Facebook sessions and watching paint peel from the wall behind the radiator.

My daughter, Aubreii, feels the same way. We text each other almost daily, but a phone call between us requires more planning than goes into most Royal weddings.

There are the obligatory “Are you free to talk later today?” texts. Once a time is set, a second text is required just prior to dialing the phone (not that anyone “dials” anymore, but you know what I mean). That’s the “Is now OK?” text.

Finally, we’re talking, live, on the phone. It’s gotten so it feels like a big deal; like back in the days of long-distance charges and “formal” first of the month calls to Grandma’s house in Indianapolis, circa 1965. Each kid was allowed 20 seconds – which my father timed with a stopwatch – with Grandma.

I’m sure my grandmother considered the time limit a blessing. What adult really wants to talk with five dopey kids?

But like I said, most phone calls – even those not initiated by children – are boring. Which is why I’m nervous about the Petcube. The Petcube is a device that (and I swear I’m not making this up) allows your pet to call you. You read that right: Fido can now dial you up from home, just to say “woof.”

Now, I’m a true animal lover. At present I have no dog, but I do have eight cats, seven chickens and a hermit crab. I like them all, but I do not want to be fielding calls from them when I’m away from home.

Frankly, I just don’t care how their day is going. As long as they’re fed, watered and not dead, I don’t need regular feline/poultry/crustacean updates from the home front.

Why? Well, first off, most animals are even more boring than their human counterparts. My cats do nothing but sleep, eat and eviscerate small animals. What are they going to say on the phone that can’t wait until I get home and find the decapitated mole on the back porch?

And the chickens, by comparison, make the cats look like the love children of Garrison Keeler and Mark Twain. A chicken’s whole purpose in life, far as I’ve been able to ascertain, is to eat, leave messes on the lawn furniture, and (fortunately for them) create eggs. They are neither bright nor interesting animals and I feel no need to check up on them when I’m out to dinner – or to have them check up on me.

Far as the hermit crab is concerned, I’m not even sure she’s still alive. She hasn’t moved in three weeks. Fortunately, death alters a hermit crab’s demeanor only slightly; a dead one is as good a pet as a live one. But again, no phone call needed.

The Petcube provides not only voice interaction, but video as well. Basically, your pooch stands in front of the device and it sends a message to your smart watch or phone. At this point you push a button and – shazam! – you’re enjoying long-distance facetime with Lassie.

Think your pet wouldn’t be interested in speaking with you? Think again. The Petcube lets you remotely dispense food for your dog or play laser tag with your cat. I have no doubt my cats would be “calling” me 10 to 15 times an hour, just for the pleasure of chasing the Red Dot.

But here’s the worst of it: Petcube also allows for the automatic posting and live-streaming of your human/critter interactions on social media. How long will it be before we’re all drowning in “Who’s a good boy? Who is? You are” Facebook videos? It’s all too horrible to contemplate.

I have no idea what a Petcube will set you back, but I’m hoping they’re prohibitively expensive. I have an old iPhone around here somewhere. I think I’ll just switch it on and leave it in the living room. If the cats or chickens can figure out how to use it, then I’ll know they really have something important to discuss.

If not? Let ‘em communicate by leaving dead animals on the back porch, the way nature intended.

MTaylor325@gmail.com

MTRealityCheck.blogspot.com

(616) 745-9530

Out here on the farm, I’m living the wild life

OK, this animal business is getting out of hand. I’m beginning to feel like Eva Gabor on “Green Acres.” I was raised in the city man! Detroit! Phoenix! Chicago!

I get allergic smelling hay!

But The Lovely Mrs. Taylor has decided we’re going to be farmers. Small-scale, petting zoo type farmers, but still. Farmers.

First it was the cats, which was OK. Lots of what I think of as “normal” folks have cats. We started with two. We’re up to seven, which is where it’s going to stay. Probably.

Then this spring came the chickens. Eight of them. Against all odds, they all survived chickhood and are now big, clucking morons racing around my back yard eating bugs and copiously fertilizing the lawn.

Maybe it’s because I feed them treats more often than I should, but the birds love me. If I’m outside, they follow me around like Indians trailing Gandhi to the Arabian Sea to make salt. If I could get them to hold still for my sermons, I might set myself up as an avian prophet of some sort.

Then last week we added bunnies. Just two of them. But they’re bunnies, and you know what bunnies do.

I’m pretty sure the addition of the rabbits has slaked Mrs. Taylor’s thirst for wildlife, at least for the moment. She’s mentioned the possibility of goats, but she can’t follow through on that until I build a shelter and corral of some sort and I plan to drag my feet on that one until hell freezes over, if necessary.

Still, despite my nauseating whining, I’ll admit I’m actually kind of digging the whole farm thing. The critters are for the most part fun, amusing and easily cared for.

But every once in a while…

I went out this morning to perform my perfunctory farm chores: letting the chickens out of their coop, feeding and watering the bunnies, muttering at the cats underfoot to get the hell out of my way, already. The usual stuff.

The morning was warm and sunny, so I didn’t bother to close the sliding door that leads out to the deck. The chickens exploded from their coop, anxious to be about their business of pooping everywhere imaginable but mostly on my lawn furniture. The bunnies gratefully accepted my ear scratching and treats of dried Timothy grass.

The cats somehow managed to simultaneously ignore me and get in my way, as always.

A typical morning here on the farm.

It wasn’t until I was back inside, sitting down to write this column (which was originally going to be about something else until this happened) that I noticed something was amiss.

I heard rustlings and bangings and whirrings and hissings, all coming from Mrs. T’s studio on the other end of the house. Cats working out their elaborate feline hierarchy, I figured. I ignored it. Until I heard the crash. Something big falling over.

I didn’t want to deal with it, but Mrs. T was at the office, so it fell to me.

Walking through the kitchen, I was nearly trampled by two cats – and a chicken – racing through the house at top speed. Let me repeat that: there was a chicken in my house!

The cats, apparently upset the birds were invading what they consider “their” turf, had decided to roust the already panicked fowl.

Remember that scene in “Rocky,” the one in which he has to catch a freaked out chicken as part of his training regimen? Yeah, it’s exactly like that, only with plenty of furniture, appliances and Mrs. T’s objets d’art-in-progress to provide avian cover. Also, the cats weren’t helping nearly as much as they thought they were.

The chicken (I think it was Henrietta, but I can’t be sure) eventually found the open deck door and rejoined her sisters in the back yard, at which point the cats lost all interest in the chase.

Now the excitement is over. I’m no longer winded, but I can’t get Eva Gabor’s voice out of my head: “New Yawk is where I’d rawther stay…”

Mtaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 745-9530

Nothing says working class like chicken poo

I’m not a cheapskate. Quite the opposite. Money flows through me like sand through an hourglass. It enters my wallet through PayPal, the newspaper’s payroll department, a bar owner’s cash register and a half-dozen other sources. When you make your living as a musician/freelance writer that’s just the way it works.

The money never seems to stay in my wallet, however. Most of it I waste on frivolous stuff like food, the mortgage, gas for my Beetle. And every so often, I treat myself to something fun.

When I do, I try to make sure I get the most fun for the least amount of money. Not because I’m cheap, but because it makes sense. (Or “cents,” if you want to insert a lame pun here, which, apparently, I do.)

Some of the fun stuff I’ve purchased during the past couple years include 1) a ridiculously expensive photography drone, 2) an electric piano, 3) repairs to an antique typewriter The Lovely Mrs. Taylor bought me for my birthday, 4) some red, fuzzy dice for my car’s rear-view mirror, and most recently, 5) eight chickens.

That’s about it. May not sound like a lot to some folks, but it’s enough to keep me happy and entertained, and frankly, “happy and entertained” has been my life’s goal for the past 60 years. So far, so good, despite that annoying children’s story about the ant and the grasshopper.

At any rate, I try to make sure the “fun stuff” I buy has real value, at least to me. This will never change, not even if I won 30-million bucks in the lottery. I’d still shop at the dollar store, I’d still buy my T-shirts at Wally World, and I’d still stay in hotels that offer a senior discount. It’s just how I’m built.

Which is why I’ll never understand “luxury” products tailored to those with more money than brains. I’m thinking of junk like solid gold iPhones and jewel-encrusted contact lenses (there really is such a thing!).

Just how unsure of your own self-worth do you have to be before stuff like this makes it to your “must-have” list?

Yesterday, a Facebook friend posted a link to a luxury item that had to be seen to be believed. Since this was one of the four Facebook “friends” I actually know as a real, living, breathing human being, I clicked the link.

It connected me with an article about Nordstrom, the department store for people who can’t spend their money fast enough and need help. It’s the place to go if you need a $300 pair of sweat socks or $600 sneakers made by a Chinese kid earning 24-cents a day.

I was in a Nordstrom once and all I can say is the people shopping there must have inherited their millions; nobody that stupid could have earned the money themselves. Seriously, management should just place a big burn barrel at the entrance and let customers throw their money into it. It would save them from having to walk around the place and risking a possible coronary event brought on by sticker shock.

You think I’m being cynical? Then consider Nordstrom’s latest offering: $450, mud-covered jeans. According to Nordstrom’s sales department, the jeans are “inspired” by the working-class. They’re being marketed toward guys and gals who want to look as if they earn their money getting their hands dirty.

Yes, for real.

Stupid, right? But that doesn’t mean I can’t make a buck off this trend. So: attention Nordstrom shoppers! For only $763.99, I’ll sell you some of my old gardening pants. One size fits all, assuming you’re a lard-butt like me. I rarely wash them, so they’re filthy already. Also, for a limited time, I’ll let you wear them to clean out my chicken coop. It’s kinda cramped in there, so the experience offers plenty of opportunities to roll around in chicken poop.

Nothing says “working class” like chicken-poop covered gardening pants! (I may even make that my new business’ catch-phrase.)

I expect the cash to start rolling in any day now. By appointment only.

Mtaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 745-9530

Chickens or kids, there’s really not that much difference

I mentioned a couple weeks back that Mrs. Taylor (formerly Lori Frankforter) had lost her mind and we are now raising chickens. Turns out I may have overstated the “losing her mind” part.  The idea wasn’t as crazy as it at first seemed.

We have eight hens (pullets, if you’re a chicken person; I’m not; I have no idea what a pullet is, other than it eats a helluva lot of chicken feed). They’re still living in the guest bathroom, ensconced in heated plastic bins with chicken wire tops on them.

I have to admit, at first I thought the idea was ridiculous. Mrs. T (fLF) and I both grew up in the city and have absolutely zero knowledge of anything ag related. Everything I know about farm life I learned from reading “Charlotte’s Web” and watching the movie, “Babe.”

Neither of those sources went into sufficient detail to give me the knowledge needed to establish an agrarian lifestyle. Fortunately, it’s not exactly rocket science.

Rising chickens, it turns out, is a lot like raising kids. When Aubreii, my first child, came along, I was practically a kid myself. At least from the neck up.

I had no idea what fatherhood would entail. Does anyone? And if they did, would anyone be crazy enough to go through with it? Sometimes, ignorance can be a good thing.

Then came Jordan and, via marriage, Jim Bob. It took all three of them and over 20 years before I felt I’d gotten the hang of the whole parent thing. By then, of course, they were grown. God knows I made mistakes along the way. Still, none of my offspring have climbed a water tower to take pot shots at student nurses, so I guess I did OK. Or maybe I just got lucky.

Either way, I’m hoping the same formula holds true with raising these dumb birds. The learning arc is accelerated, of course, but so far, it all feels very familiar.

As with the kids, when the chickens first entered our home, they were cute, little bundles of downy sweetness, impossible not to love. The girl at Tractor Supply Company cautioned me to not “cuddle” them. I did anyway, even though they are – according to the literature – lethal balls of contagion just waiting for their chance to transmit the super-flu to every last human being on the planet.

Just like kids.

Contagious or not, they were cute. Super cute! I sat in the guest bathroom for hours on end just watching their goofy antics as they tumbled to and fro in their never ending search for a warm spot in the wood chips. They seemed genuinely grateful for each refilling of the food and water containers, chirping happily day and night.

But as with kids, that baby stage didn’t last long. Within a week the downy, yellow fluff had begun to fall off and was replaced by scruffy feathers best described as the bird version of zits.

Like teenagers, they seemed to have sprung up overnight. They were no longer sweet and cute. They were lanky, unattractive, demanding, moody. Any of this sounding familiar, parents of teens?

They began to squabble among themselves. There’s always an abundance of food and water in those plastic bins, but still they find reason to quarrel. And those sweet, little cheep-cheep noises they made at first? Those have been replaced with angry bawk-bawks that leave little doubt as to their meaning: “Daaaaad! Henrietta is molting on my side of the cage again!”

Fortunately, those “teen” days are almost over already. In another week they’ll be moving outside to the coop I recently built them, which is considerably nicer than the house I live in myself.

I feel ready to let them out into the wider world. Sure, I’ll still feed and water them, just like I did with my kids when they first moved away. But if one of them wants to move back into the house, well, that’s not happening.

Likewise, they can forget about me loaning them any money. Other than that, raising chickens is a lot like raising kids.

I got this.

mtaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 745-9530

How I found Jesus while feeding chickens

It was the summer of 1973; what most folks really mean when they say “the ‘60s.” 

Inflation was rampant, the Supreme Court ruled on Roe v. Wade, Nixon told the world — with a straight face — that he was “not a crook.” I wasn’t paying attention to any of it.

I was just a kid, 17, and world events played little part in my daily life. My girlfriend, Dianne, had dumped me a couple months earlier (yes, it was happening even then!) and I was waiting for my broken heart to mend. I had too much time on my hands and too little to do.

Which is why sunrise on the Fourth of July found me sitting on my guitar case by the Leonard Street on-ramp. Two dollars and 39 cents nestled lonely in my pocket, my battered backpack — containing only a box of Rye Crisp crackers and three pieces of beef jerky — leaned against the guard rail. I raised my thumb in the direction I wanted to go: south and west.

The second car to roll past, a Country Squire station wagon just like the one my parents owned and driven by a little old lady, picked me up. She took me most of the way through Indiana.

She was a sweet old gal who said I reminded her of her son, who had died a few years earlier in Vietnam. She slipped twenty bucks in my backpack when she finally dropped me off just outside Terre Haute.

From there, a series of cars and trucks — driven by hippies, gay guys, old couples, cute girls — moved me along as far as Hodgeman County, Kansas. An inebriated guy in a pickup let me out just outside a mid-sized city with the improbable name of Jetmore.

It was there I sat for 18 hours straight without getting a lift. Back then, it seemed everyone was willing to pick up a hitch-hiker, even one as scruffy and (probably) smelly as I was after a week on the road. But not in Jetmore. Eighteen hours, man; that’s a long time to sit by a freeway on-ramp.

When the rain started, I was not surprised.

Eventually, a rusted out Chevy van eased to the shoulder and honked. A girl about my age hopped out the passenger door, lifted the back hatch and loaded in my guitar case while I grabbed my pack.

The first question was always the same: “Where you headed?” 

“Phoenix,” I said.

“Oh, we’re just going 20 miles down the road, but at least that’ll give you a chance to dry off.”

I thanked her and closed the hatch. Twenty miles was 20 miles. Not far, but better than nothing.

Instead of smelling like pot (a lot of Chevy vans did back then) getting into this one I was greeted with the good earth smell of potatoes, though none were in evidence.

“How ya doing, man?” said Jesus, the van’s driver. He wasn’t really Jesus, but he did look exactly like him, assuming the real Jesus looked exactly like the guy who played him in that “Superstar” movie.

“You look like Jesus,” I said.

He laughed. “Yeah, I get that a lot, man.”

The driver’s was Dave, not Jesus, but it turned out he and the girl — I forget her name — were Jesus freaks. That’s what people called them at the time; it wasn’t derogatory.

They were very nice, though they both did their best to redeem my misbegotten soul in the half-hour it took to get to the commune where they lived with a dozen other 20-something hippies.

The rain had not abated and when they asked me to stay the night, I gratefully accepted. The night turned into a week, the week into two weeks, two weeks into three.

My “job” was to feed the chickens, shovel out coops, and gather eggs. In exchange, I received a bed, organic (and lousy) food, and more prayer meetings than Mother Theresa would have been able to handle comfortably. It didn’t take me long to fall into the rhythm of the place.

I got to know Sandy, one of the girls who lived there. We shared a brief romance and when she announced she was moving back to her folk’s house in Los Angeles, I talked her into dropping me in Glendale, near Phoenix, even though it was a couple hours out her way.

I didn’t get back to Michigan until summer was well over and autumn begun. I learned a lot that summer, about chickens, Jesus, and guys who only look like Jesus.

I can’t honestly say I’d like to do it all again. But like almost everything I’ve done in this life, I’m glad I did it once.

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