Another book for my collection of random, free-to-read titles on the Audible Plus catalogue. I'm no chicken expert or even an enthusiast, but as with most animals, I do find the feathery little things pleasant and cute, and in this case sometimes scary*.
My family growing up occasionally had chickens, but we never bothered to apply ourselves properly to the task, never quite respecting the responsibility involved, and so all our chickens sooner or later ended up being victim to the fox. One particularly regrettable time, I actually did grow very fond of a certain hen - a very pleasant-natured ISA Brown - whom we unoriginally named Ginger after the protagonist in Chicken Run. She was a beautiful bird, and she got so used to being petted by my brothers and me, that she would literally run up to us dog-like when we came home from school, clucking excitedly and laying her head over our shoulders when we scooped her up to cuddle. Sometimes I would pick her up and take her on a jolly little killing spree of moths which, at the time, liked to congregate on our dining room window. I would hold her up to the immobile moths, she would stare at them for a few moments, then in the space of a second, they would disappear down her throat.
Unfortunately, I came home one day to find our new puppy had torn her apart. I never could have thought I'd be devastated over losing a chicken until that day.
But that's enough about me, I think. It's just that I literally cannot think of much to say about the book itself. It's fine if you're obsessed with chickens, but for a casually interested reader like me, it was sometimes interesting, sometimes amusing, often charming, but too often a bit random and pointless - aka, too many recipes. I found the historical, cultural and biological aspects much more enjoyable.
* After all, not every chicken was my friend. I had a mate in school, who lived up the road on a large semi-rural property. There was this big shed up the back, with a chicken coop attached, and a particularly territorial rooster that would chase you down if ever you entered his domain. Typically, us boys enjoyed nothing more than the thrill of sneaking up to him as close as possible, then absolutely bolting for it when he spotted us and charged, our hearts pounding in our mouths. Once, tracking the rooster round the furthest side of the large shed - a quite hazardous liminal space - my escape was thwarted by a stack of corrugated iron sheeting. I tripped, fell into it, brought the whole lot down on top of me and sliced my wrist open. Finally, justice was served for that rooster who just wanted to be left alone.