Lucy and the Movable Rock

Lucy was a Cornish game hen, and she was brilliant.

She came into my family’s life in 1982, joining a long line of other non-traditional pets such as hamsters, guinea pigs, assorted birds, and even a tarantula. We always had a cat or three around, and a dog from time to time. I unabashedly admit that I was more of a cat person.

A school friend of my youngest daughter gifted her the chicken, and she quickly became a family pet. She named her Lucy; she said she “looked like a Lucy.”

Lucy joined our two mallards in ridding the yard of slugs and snails. She considered herself a duck, having been raised with them and mimicked their eating pattern through her entire life. We only realized the duck connection after they passed away and we tried to replace the ducks with another chicken. Lucy attacked the poor little strange animal and almost killed her. We had to spray yellow dye on her head to save her. (Chickens won’t peck yellow).

Katie was a Lhasa Apso/border collie mix and the protector of all of our other pets for her entire lifetime. She loved “her” cats, ducks and chickens.

One day while resting after my yard work while my wife was working on her begonias, I watched as the dog rested in a cool spot and Lucy pecked around for bugs in the grass. She was about six or eight feet away from Katie when she lowered her head, let out an awful cackle and headed at the dog like an arrow. Katie, surprised by the behavior, got up and ran.

After the dog moved, Lucy continued her pecking and Katie found a new spot to lie down in the shade.

Almost an hour went by, and it happened again. Same cackle, same charge at the dog, same back to normal. This was odd, and not at all typical behavior for this bird. Another hour, another incident.

Then I figured it out. The warmth of the dog’s body was bringing bugs closer to the surface of the grass. The chicken somehow figured this out and waited long enough for the desired result, then moved the dog. Katie was a movable rock.

This was not the only incident of the brilliance of this tiny creature, but it was the most profound.

Rich Jordan, 80, and his wife, are a bit short on pets these days in Arcata.