All This Empathy For a Few Poultry Little Eggs?

If you've read this blog before, you're probably painfully aware that I'm a huuuuuuge animal lover.  HUGE.  I empathize with them, take their feelings into account, and generally humanize them.  I draw the line at dressing my dogs up, but if it's got feathers or fur, I believe that it requires some level of psychological understanding.  (On some level, you do it too, so shaddup.  Don't judge me.)  


As a little girl, I brought home all manor of furry creatures in hopes that my parents would let me keep them.  But the fighting was for naught.  Despite my convincing tears and desperate conniption fits, my pre-teen mind always underestimated my parents' resolve to make the issue of additional pets the metaphorical 'hill upon which they were willing to die'.  


I know, I know.   I was also the kid who tied strings to June bug legs and walked them around like little buzzing balloons.  Well, until I tugged too hard and their legs came off. But dammit, bugs AREN'T animals now, are they?


Him, on the other hand, is barely animal tolerant.  Wild and most domesticated animals are meant to be food, cats are superfluous beings, and dogs are meant to be neither seen nor heard without prior human consent.  Regardless, he tolerates the anthropomorphism of our dogs with quiet aplomb akin to a thermonuclear reaction.


Now that you've got a little set up, I want to share with you a conversation that Him and I had last weekend while driving through some rural farmland in Southern Illinois.  


Me:    Those cows look bored, dontcha think?
Him:   Yeah, but they don't really know it.  They're pretty dumb.
Me:     Maybe, but it seems like the farmers could put something out there to keep them occupied.
Him:   Like soccer balls or something?   That one over there looks a little like David Beckham, now that you bring it up.
Me:     We should get a cow.  

These little cuties were for sale at Rural King.
See Marge and Shirley over there on the left?

Him:  We've already got the dogs. You want big and sloppy? Look at the Bassetard.  Actually, I've always wanted to raise chickens.  
Me:   That'd be cool.  We can name them!
Him:  If you insist, but they're not gonna be pets.
Me:   Can they come inside when it gets cold?
Him:  No!  They stay outside. You put heaters in the coop.
Me:   They'll still be cold  They wouldn't take up much space.  Plus, they're built in alarm clocks and we could grab breakfast on the walk from the bedroom to the kitchen.  
Him:  Uh.  Not happening. Besides, the dogs would chase them to death.
Me:   Yeah.  I guess. So you want to raise them to eat?
Him:  Not unless they won't lay eggs.
Me:   Oh good.  I couldn't eat something with a name. How many eggs do they lay?  What happens if you don't pick up the eggs?  Do they keep laying more eggs?  
Him:  I'm not sure.  I hope so. 
Me:   How do the chickens feel about someone taking their egg away everyday?  Maybe they're like  'Hey, Marge, you seen junior?' 'Yeah, Shirl.  Bastards took him away again.'  What if they're traumatized by it?  Chickens have feelings too.
Him:  I doubt it.  
Me:   How do you know?
Him:  Let me correct myself. They're farm animals, Babe. I don't give a fuck about depressed chickens.  
Me:   You should.  We want happy chickens.  
Him:  Maybe chickens are a bad idea.
Me:   How do you feel about keeping rabbits?

Him:  They're delicious.

Don't worry little buddy.  You'd be safe with me....

E-I-E-I-O-ness, y'all,

Ach

P.S.  If this makes no sense, I blame it on my cold/flu, which refuses to abate.