When I graduated from high school, I went to Nanny College. While I attended classes, I lived with a family and helped take care of their little girl, and then their new baby. The sprawling ranch-style home was in a small, country-like neighborhood, sort of tucked into the bigger, more city-like city of Sacramento, and it was on a sizeable lot with a large yard and pool.
The family didn’t have pets, except for a cat that appeared every so often — a bedraggled, dirty Siamese with a healthy sense of distrust — and a feral chicken.
The cat skulked around the yard, hiding in the shrubbery, and only appeared at night or very early in the morning to gobble at food we’d leave on the back porch. I noticed she was getting fat, and realized she was pregnant. I made it my mission to befriend her. It took several weeks of quietly sitting on the porch, talking in a low, soothing voice and setting out fresh food and water every day before she finally trusted me enough to approach one end of the porch while I was on the other end. I was thrilled!
After our breakthrough, I hoped she’d come closer, but instead she disappeared for close to a week. At the end of that time, she reappeared, standing on the porch and staring at me through the sliding glass door until I noticed her. When I went outside, she led me to the side yard, where she disappeared into some bushes along the house. After a moment, she appeared in a little hollowed out spot and settled in amongst several kittens. I was able to climb up on a utility meter to peek over the leaves and see them, wiggling and mewing, their eyes still closed.
The other creature — the horrible chicken — was impossible to love. It hated everyone, and it hated anyone in its yard. If you wanted to go outside, you had to scan very carefully to make sure the coast was clear before venturing out, or the following scenario would play out:
Unsuspecting person enters the yard. Chicken immediately goes Code Red, backing up with big, high-knee steps while simultaneously lifting both wings to shoulder height, turning head and putting its neck down to glare out of one scowling eye at its target, while emitting a warning sound that rises in intensity: “Baaawwwwww?”
If the unsuspecting person has not picked up on the warning signs and fled for the house, the chicken then ups the ante and goes Code Red and a Half. This is when the whole backing-up-lifting-wings-head-turned-neck-down-death-glare is now launched at full speed across the yard, with the warning sound now at full throat: “BaaawwwwwKKK!”
I am not ashamed to admit that I resorted to shrieking a few times, myself, as I high tailed it across the yard to safety. There is something prehistoric about an enraged chicken — the velociraptors of the barnyard — and I firmly believed he had an advantage over me in a fight. I can’t even say it was a healthy respect that kept me out of the yard when that bird was around; it was full-fledged fear, and I own that.
The only time I willingly went into the yard when the chicken was out there was when the mama cat had brought all five kittens out for a playdate on the lawn. The Siamese cat and the chicken exchanged a long stare, and the chicken pretended an interest in a patch of grass way, way, way over at the other side of the yard.
I was on the porch, watching the cats, when out of the corner of my eye I saw a familiar backing up, wings-up maneuver beginning. Without a thought, I whirled around, lowered my center of gravity and raised my arms to shoulder height. Fixing the chicken with a death glare, I stomped malevolently in its direction, bellowing incoherently, until it decided to flee.
When I turned back, the mama cat and I made eye contact. She gave me a slow blink, and I was now allowed to approach her family. When the kittens were grown, one – a little gray tabby female — became my first cat, Dasha.
