Just a big chicken (Disclaimer - no poultry were harmed in the making of this story)

We love our chickens. Or rather I love our chickens, I think my husband, Paul, could probably take them or leave them. They provide us with tasty eggs and add an air of the bucolic to our yard when they are out scratching and pecking. Its so comforting to lie in bed on a summer morning and listen, through the open window, to the girls clucking softly as they begin to stir. Next we hear soft thumps as they jump down from their roosts to the floor of the hen house. Then the real "concert" begins as they emerge from their coop into the hen yard cackling louder. It's clearly time for their breakfast.

Occasionally, one will try her hand (wing?) at crowing. We don't have any roosters because they harass the girls and can be quite noisy. So every once in a while, one of the girls will make an attempt at performing a cock-a-doodle-doo to remind us why we don't need a rooster.

Mr. Drumsticks in repose.

When it comes to clamor, neither hen nor rooster compares to a peacock in terms of volume and annoyance.  I know because, in addition to having chickens at our home, there is a peacock at the winery where I work. He isn't alone, there are also two peahens that call the winery grounds home. 

Much to the chagrin of my colleagues, I have taken to calling the peacock "Mr. Drumsticks" because of his rather large, muscular thighs. During the spring time, Mr. Drumsticks becomes quite the lusty fellow, strutting about displaying his feathers and honking loudly for the two peahens. And who could blame him, really, because they are both lovely specimens if not as colorful as their suitor. On a daily basis he can be seen, tail feathers spread fan-like, fluttering them softly in an attempt to woo the peahens. He pulls out all of the stops by hollering at the top of his lungs just in case the technicolor feather show doesn't get their attention. As far as I can see, the peahens mostly ignore the poor fellow. Not so the guests that visit the winery, they adore him and are constantly following him around with their smart phones snapping pictures. In fact, if Mr. Drumsticks could hold a pen I imagine they'd be asking for his autograph.

He doesn't have quite the movie star status among me and my fellow employees, mostly because of his loud, alarming honking and his insistence on pecking at shiny, chrome surfaces on vehicles. Also, in his quest to prove that he is top bird, he's begun to challenge folks in cars as they attempt to drive by him. Such was the case the other day, when a delivery truck came onto the winery property to unload some large tents for an upcoming event. We were working away at our desks when we heard a truck intermittently sounding its horn. Each blast was answered by a loud squawk from the peacock. I looked out our window and saw Mr. Drumsticks, with his tail spread in all its glory, staring down a large panel delivery truck. It looked like a bizarre reenactment of Tank Man at Tiananmen Square.

Mr. Drumsticks strutting his stuff.

That dang bird had brought the whole tent assembly team to a standstill. I immediately knew what had to be done. Whenever I have to "wrangle" (A.K.A. move) the chickens at home, I grab the nearest long handled broom and then herd them along by sweeping the broom back and forth behind them. It works great. I don't even have to touch them, they just scamper along ahead of me. We didn't have a broom at work but we did have a "Swiffer" which would work just as well. Armed with the Swiffer, I dashed out the door. I came upon the peacock, fluttering his fanned tail, standing about a foot from the front grill of the truck. The driver was still meekly honking the horn. About eight other workers from the tent company were standing around like paparazzi, smart phones held aloft, recording the scene. I marched up to Mr. Drumsticks slowly swinging the Swiffer back and forth. He immediately lowered his tail and scuttled out from in front of the truck. He jumped up on a nearby fence and let out an indignant screech. The truck slowly proceeded past without further incident.

As I walked by a very disgruntled peacock, he glared at me, I'm certain, with malice in his heart. Too bad Mr. Drumsticks. You may inspire awe in delivery truck drivers, but I know your true identity. You're nothing but a large chicken with extravagant plumage. 

FARM BREAKFAST

10x8 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2016

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Farm Breakfast - auction ends on Sunday, June 19th at 9:00am PST. 

I came upon this iconic farm scene one sunny morning after riding my horse Mac. The mare, “Scooter” was nursing her first foal, a fine chestnut colt named “Archer.”  Archer is now a full-grown horse and I like to think he’s giving his new owner lots of fun rides. On that morning, however, he had only one thought on his mind, breakfast.