In Favor of Chickens

Ever so slowly, I've been helping build a little team of Charleston folks that will advocate for better conditions for farm animals. How niche. We host protests, table at festivals, harass corporations that still use caged-eggs in their supply chains, and also we have "humane happy hours." 

People usually giggle when I tell them about this but we've won every campaign we've set our sights on. We spent the whole summer heckling Hardees' parent company (CKE Restaurants) and they held out for what seemed like ages before they finally buckled last month. We had protests, petitions, email campaigns. We leave bad reviews and comments. We find the board members and put the guilt trip on 'em. We leave manager letters at our local franchises and say, "send it on up!" 

For three years now, it's worked every time. Now that CKE buckled, we've turned our cannons towards a cookie chain. 

This might seem annoying to you, but that's the whole point. We just wear 'em down - and even if you aren't an animal-loving vegetarian, I think you can admit that taking the hens out of cages is the least we could do. We're not asking companies to stop serving meat or eggs. We're asking them to do it less cruelly. 

Did you know caged hens live their entire lives in a space equal to an iPad screen? Most people don't know that. Also, they never go outside or see the sun. (Yes, even the Free Range ones you paid extra for.) The hens can't make nests for their eggs. forage for bugs, have dirt baths, or do any of the things they would naturally be doing. That's a life of torment - even for a chicken brain.

So here we are, kicking corporate butts in favor of chickens.

 

A Very Big Week or So

I was driving over the bridge when I noticed a Santa Clause-esque man on a moped, slowing down the flow of things, but giving the finger to anyone that went around him. He was livid; swinging around his tallest finger and shouting and throwing his arm around. Everyone nearby did their best to give him space, and then I wound up behind him on the same exit. He zoomed along a little under the speed limit and I kept my distance until we came to a stoplight. I got in the lane next to him, waited for the light to turn green, and then I gunned it to make space to get in front of him. Well he didn't like that one bit. He decided to gun it too; to challenge the roaring 4runner at his left. I could have easily out run him, but the speed limit was low and surely his little sewing machine engine would top out any second. I maintained speed and waited for him to crap out, but he didn't. He pushed that moped for all it had and then suddenly  turned straight towards my car. I hit the brakes, barely missing him as he cut me off. He yelled things and gave me the finger, and I just let angry Santa carry on his way.

...until we met at the next light. He got off his scooter and got all up in my window yelling every sort of expletive at me. He called me names no one's ever called me. I stared forward smacking my gum - hoping to looking unbothered by his meltdown, but on the inside, boy I was worried. I was mulling over what I could use as a weapon if he decided to bust through my window. I was also embarrassed because of the attention he had drawn from the surrounding cars. He finally got back on his scooter, gave me both fingers, yelled a few more F-you's, and then threw himself in front of my car again just as I was hitting the gas. I had to wait for him to putter up to speed before I could get going. I got stuck behind him for a long time, but he still presented his finger to anyone that went around me to get past him. A furious Santa. We finally parted ways, and two miles later, a lady pulled up next to me and said, " I want you to know, I saw the whole thing and I had your back!"
That's my mid-week highlight.

On Saturday, we attended Ari and Nate's annual Halloween party. 

On Sunday we went to a baby shower. I was warned ahead of time that there wouldn't be much there for me to eat, and since it was at a close friends house, I thought nothing of bringing my own little plant-based hotdog and frying it up on the stove while all the other party patrons mused about miniature things. The hotdog's savory fumes caused quite a stir which struck me as very funny thing to pull attention away from a pregnant lady. I regretted bringing the hotdog and learned the life lesson of not being too comfortable in your friend's house when strangers are present. It didn't help that Brett and Ellie had taken to a grape throwing competition of sorts, and I had to go in and tell them to act like adults... but first I had to see if my grape could make it as high as theirs. I think we may lack the reverence expected at baby showers. 

Then we went to a book launch. It was a spooky horror book, and since it was nearly Halloween, ghoulish costumes were requested. Ellie and I had a great chat with the girl who would be interviewing the author and we set a bet that she couldn't get the author to say a particular thing. So when the time came, there was a secretly riotous exchange between the interviewer, the author, and audience questioner, Ellie. Being the only three that knew the underlying goal of her question, we were fighting smirks, giggles, and eventually a triumphant exclamation on the part of the interviewer. Ellie and I lost. 

And finally, the biggest event of all over this bustling 10 day stretch; Papa Union saw a kitten on The Connector. It was leaping and flailing about, and Dad rocketed into action. He pulled over to get the kitten out of the road, and his eager presence must have scared the little squirt because it ran away, and slipped through a drain, and tumbled from the bridge down into the marsh below. Action Jackson wasted no time. He called 911 and had the firefighters plotting a rescue scheme. But Popples had a meeting to get to, so he tagged me in. 

Brett and I had been in Mt. Pleasant; him at the office, me at a protest. We were headed home with Grace in the car when Dad called and told me to "pull up behind the firetruck on the bridge and tell them who you are!" It was thrilling to hang out on the side of The Connector. I've driven over it thousands of times in my life, but I've never stopped to get out and enjoy the view, or dangle my head over the side in search of a muddy kitten. The firemen put one of their own down in the marsh while the rest directed him from up on the bridge. The little kitten was so far into the pluff mud that they had to use heat sensors to find it. The one in the mud with it then stuffed it into a bag that was hoisted back up onto the bridge by a thin rope. They rinsed off the kitten and then put that wet, foul-smelling, trembling little kitten in my arms. Two of the firemen were interested in what would happen to it. "Maybe we could us a station cat," one suggested. Meanwhile, Brett was disturbed that the firemen kept calling him Mr. Brett. "How old do they think I am?" he sneered quietly. I held kitty in my arms the whole way home. It never moved. It laid on it's back and stared at me and trembled and allllmost closed it's eyes but then forced them back open again. Poor little squirt.

We gave it a warm sudsy bath (only reduced the pluff mud stench by half), the option for food and water, and a soft, dark little box to hide in. My research led me to believe its was only about 5 weeks old, still being fed by mama cat. Dad called to check in. Unexpectedly, he wanted to keep it BUT MOM didn't. Can you believe that? There's a sweet ending though, because one of the firefighters came back to adopt it. Poor Pops didn't even get to meet the little guy he saved., but it's a got a big long life ahead thank's to secret softy and friend to the felines, Chris Union.

Brett and I hardly slept that week. We figured he was stressed from work (big changes going on there) and I seem to take on any ailment he experiences - so I had sympathy insomnia - but maybe life was just too exciting for sleep.