Chickens
It occurred to me today that the life of a chicken is not as rosy as one might expect. What, apart from the cramped living conditions, the same food every day, and that your species is generally associated with cowardice… what could they possibly have to be upset about?
It’s this.
Day in and day out they lay eggs, but they never have any chicks. No one to carry on the family line – as it were.
Of course, the (presumably) limited intelligence of a chicken may shield them from the cumulative effect of so much work for so little reward. Perhaps every day they have forgotten that just yesterday they laid some eggs, and just yesterday they got snatched, and just yesterday they were all alone in their nest. But can their (presumably) tiny brains protect their emotions, too?
Imagine how excited you’d be if the thing you were made to do (in a chicken’s case let’s assume that’s lay eggs and raise chicks) seemed like it would become a reality and then how devastated you’d feel when that same hope got snatched away on a daily basis? For us, much more sophisticated beings, that may look like studying hard for an exam and failing, or pouring your heart into a painting and having someone ask you who puked on your canvas, or designing a project that never has any commercial success. I’m no chicken, but this cycle tends to do rather a number on my emotional state.
There is an old proverb that may have originated from someone studying chickens: hope deferred makes the heart sick. (From the original: eggs removed makes a chicken cluck.)
On one hand I suppose the chickens who did, um, make it to be chickens should be quite pleased that the eggs they came from weren’t picked for omelletes. Of course, this being rather a mental ascension, and they being (seemingly) rather stupid creatures I think we safely assume they never climb that mental mountain and leave the valley of despair behind. (I doubt there is ‘the other’ hand -especially given that chickens don’t have hands so the whole reference is a little misguided anyways.)
Since their minds are neither sufficiently complex to remember the ordeal of the missing eggs from yesterday or to mentally ascend to a higher plain concerning their miserable state I think we have to re-evaluate our use of the word chicken in our vocabulary. You see, chickens aren’t very chicken.
They try, fail, try, fail until the cows come home.
Since we can say that a chicken laying an egg is not a frivolous use of their time or a fool’s errand their efforts are not foolish or laughable so much as admirable.
So, perhaps all of us who have tried and failed and are afraid to try again shouldn’t be called chickens anymore.
Chickens, after all, don’t appear to be chicken.
(Brave) Sir Robin's Crest
The orated tale of Sir Robin who nearly attacked the vicious chicken of Bristol. (Having decided against the attack, he, in the end, decided to take the chicken as his crest just the same.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c4SJ0xR2_bQ