When I was twelve I raised chickens in my bedroom.

There were six of them and I named them Patrick, Pepper, Peggy, Popsicle, Pogo and Hamilcar.

They lived in a cardboard box next to my bed.

I decided to get them after my sixth grade class hatched a bunch of chicks in an incubator for a science project. The classroom chicks were adorable, and it didn’t take long before I knew I had to have some of my own.

The initial problem was that my parents didn’t like pets.

Over the years we’d had a dog, a turtle, and some fish, but the fish went down the toilet, the turtle got buried in a shoe-box, and the dog was sent to live on “a farm in the country.”

Once the dog was gone my parents told us they were done with animals.

But I had to have my chickens.

So I devised a plan to convince my folks they needed to get me some. My strategy included a hefty dose of guilt and a few sneaky angles which included:

The ‘Princess’ Angle

I was the only girl in my family. I had three brothers. My gender gave me priority. End of angle.

The ‘Sickly Kid’ Angle

When I was five I had a tumor the size of a hamster that tried to eat my spine. The incident left me with some gnarly scars and I soon figured out that whenever I wanted something all I had to do was point to my belly and pout.

The ‘Scruggly’ Angle

At twelve I wasn’t looking so hot. I’d packed on a solid layer of fat and had multicolored braces that glowed in the dark. My eyebrows looked like mangy caterpillars and I’d gotten a Captain Hook perm for my birthday. Unfortunately, these factors made me not-so-popular in my peer group. My parents never actually said anything, but I knew they pitied me.

So, it was with this line of attack that I approached my parents one night and said:

A couple weeks later I walked out of the local Farm & Feed with my box of baby chicks.

It turned out the chickens needed a lot of attention and care so I insisted they stay with me in my room instead of in the garage.

At first they were really cute with their tiny beaks and funny little feet.

They’d nibble my fingers and wouldn’t squawk much when I’d rub their fluffy bodies against my face.

The best part was I’d earned the bragging rights of telling all the kids at school that I was raising chickens in my bedroom.

No story topped that, and for about three weeks I was the queen of the sixth grade.

But then things started to get ugly.

Literally.

As the chicks grew they got all gross and awkward. Their necks stretched out and their soft baby fluff fell out in chucks.

Their chirping got louder and more piercing and their poop took on a rancid, pungent smell that filled my room and wafted into the hallway.

My parents gave little hints here and there, like, “Maybe it’s time we moved them into the garage.” But I knew the garage was the first step to giving them away to that same “farm in the country.”

So I stubbornly refused to let them leave my side.

But as much as I fought for them they kind of creeped me out. They started to draw blood whenever they’d peck my fingers, and their beady eyes took on a demonic reddish glint.

I’d lay awake at night staring at their box, listening to their eerie chatter and trying not to think about them pecking out my eyes in the middle of the night.

When the chickens were about six weeks old my mom left for the afternoon to run some errands. She asked me to babysit my two younger brothers while she was out. As soon as she left I decided it was a good time to introduce my chickens to the backyard for the first time.

I took them out of my room and set them out on the lawn in a cage. It was a warmish day, but I wasn’t planning on leaving them out for very long so it didn’t occur to me to put them in the shade or leave water in their cage.

I then went inside for about an hour.

Once I figured the chickens had had enough sunlight I waltzed out to get them; but when I reached their cage the chickens were all…

They were flat on their backs, legs stuck in the air like TV antennas.

Frantic, I grabbed one by the neck and gave him a good shake, yelling at him to wake up. But his  head only flopped around and his eyes lolled back in his skull.

It was the most disturbing thing I’d ever seen.

Not knowing what else to do I ran back to the house to call my mom.

I grabbed the phone and dialed her cell.

As I listened to it ring I took a deep breath in an effort to calm myself.

But I could feel the hysteria building in my chest…

…gaining momentum…

…and finally…

…unleashing.

Once the hysteria exploded there was no stopping it. I screamed like a fire engine.

Surprisingly calm, my mom asked:

I ignored her question.

I knew I had to pull myself together. This was no way to convey the demise of my chickens!

I could hear my mom yelling something on the other end of the phone, but I wasn’t listening. I was too caught up in the devastation of the moment.

As the reality of their demise filled me, I became frozen in an existential stupor. I couldn’t believe this was happening. This couldn’t be real life.

My mom kept yelling.

“The chickens,” I whispered. “The chickens are all dead.”

My mom got really quiet.

I gave her a moment because I knew she was going to be just as devastated as I was.

But when she spoke all she said was:

I was the only one that was actually sad the chickens were gone.

Everyone in my family mumbled their condolences, but I could tell they weren’t all that disappointed to see the little creepers go.

I buried them in a shallow grave in the backyard and put rocks over their bodies in place of headstones. My older brother ran them over with the lawnmower later that summer and they ended up as mulch in the grass.

So, I suppose, this post serves as a final memorial to Patrick, Popsicle, Peggy, Pogo and Hamilcar. So long fellas, I suppose it could’ve been worse. (Pepper actually survived, but my parents insisted he go live on a farm in the country).

{This is a retouched version of the very first Dingpatch post which was originally written in 2012}