I was at a food co-op the other day and saw some free- range chickens in the freezer cabinet. It got me thinking.
If a person who rounds up cows is a cow poke, is someone who rounds up free-range chickens a chicken poke? A chicken puncher? A chicken hand? A chickenboy or chickengirl? What, in other words, is this person’s job classification? Under what title does he or she appear in the U.S. Department of Labor’s list of jobs and professions?
There’s also the matter of dress. What does one wear when he or she is out on the range, poking chickens? Chickenboy boots? A chickenboy hat? And what, exactly, does a chickenboy hat look like? Is it broad-rimmed and parted down the top like a cowboy hat, or does it have a two hump dromedary look, like a rooster cowl?
If I were going to a job as a chicken puncher, what’s the garb of choice? Spurs and chaps? A bee keeper outfit to ward off rooster pecks? An apron and sneakers? Is the dress different depending on the ultimate market for my chicken parts? Do Jewish and Muslim free-range chicken hands wear ritually appropriate attire that differs from the clothing worn by their non-Jewish and non-Muslim counterparts?
The more I thought about this matter (I’m semi-retired, so I have a lot of time to focus on things like this), the more challenging it became. For example: what implements does one use to corral free-range chickens? A lasso? A net? A hook with a loop at the end? A dart gun like the one employed when tagging big game?
Clearly, I was entering deep water here. Or if not deep water, than certainly deep something. Now the matter of what animal helper to use in chicken poking endeavors popped into my head. A dog helps with sheep. A horse with cows. But what do you use on the range with chickens? Do you round them up riding an ostrich? As the organic food market opens ever newer and more exciting vistas, these sorts of out-of-the-box considerations become inevitable.
Finally, there’s the matter of safety. Coop-raised chickens present few dangers when it’s time for them to meet the pot. If you can corner one in a chicken coop, you’re pretty sure to come out on top in any confrontation. There are no corners, however, out there in Big Sky range country. Here, reanimated by untrammeled nature, some atavistic urges could well resurface in the free-range chicken population. It’s a pretty well documented fact that today’s birds are the direct descendants of prehistoric dinosaurs. You go out on the range expecting to find a flighty pullet, and meet instead a mini-velociraptor. Things could get pretty nasty.
I reckon a chicken poke’s gotta do what a chicken poke’s gotta do. But I’d hate to be the one who had to tell some poor widow that her man went down under the cruel talons or a New Jersey red.
