I am much better suited to the city life. Where I lived in Uzbekistan wasn’t exactly rural, but certainly in comparison to London – definitely. For a start I hear you aren’t supposed to name your chickens as they aren’t meant to be your pets, but how else could I tell them apart? Sheryl, named after my sister who growing up was nicknamed by family members as ‘mother hen’ seemed a natural choice. Evidently when I was very small she felt like I was her baby and therefore coddled to me like a mother hen would her offspring. That changed. Karen, named after my other sister, was rather quiet and kept to herself a lot. I named her incorrectly, as this doesn’t describe this sister at all. Then there was Yoko, the Japanese hen. By far the prettiest of them all and very petite, as you would expect a Japanese hen to be. There were others, but we’ll leave it at that. They all had one thing in common– an unfortunate lack of food.

Our home had a ready-built chicken coop to the left of the main entry and being the good citizens we were, we decided to do the ‘cultural’ thing in order to fit in with the locals by becoming chicken owners. I cleaned up the coop before their arrival and apart from setting out a nice bouquet of flowers to welcome them I felt I had gone far and above my first duties as chicken dad.

I grabbed a neighbour on “chicken day,” which happened once a month at our local market, and off we went to make our purchases. I had no idea what I was doing and was going for the cutest. This is how we got Yoko, much to my neighbour’s disapproval. “It’s a waste of money,” he said in a stern correcting voice, as I kept pointing to her. He peered in the other chicken’s eyes, lifted their wings, opened their beaks, tapped on their bellies, and overall impressed me with his chicken knowledge. How could I argue with such wisdom or experience? However, I stuck to my guns and bought Yoko anyway. He reminded me their purpose was for laying eggs, which evidently I had lost sight of in the excitement of the market. Hanging them upside down by the legs, with a couple in each hand, we carried them home. Several passersby stopped and commented on our fine chickens, to which I smiled and nodded as a proud new father would. Yes indeed, I am a full-fledged chicken owner now.

The first thing I realised when I returned home was that I would have to find them some food. They were looking a little peckish, but perhaps this was from being carried upside down and all the blood had rushed to their little heads. Nevertheless, I had to feed them. But what? I raided the kitchen and found a few table scraps, which I am told chickens love, and some stale bread. It was possible to buy an entire aviary of chickens on chicken day, but never could you buy food. This was up to your own ingenuity.

Once the new arrivals had eaten and were ‘fat and sassy,’ as my father might have said, I tried to usher them into their new home. A larger white, quite ordinary upon appearance, chicken went straight into the coop and showed definite signs of leadership. Clucking away she went in with no problem and staked out her territory. She was definitely setting herself up to be head hen. Yep, her name must be Sheryl. She was full of life and seemed like she was going to enjoy the coop to its maximum. As long as she could be boss, she was happy. Karen followed on her heels and one by one the rest of the chickens reluctantly followed them into the coop with their heads hanging down. However, I might have misinterpreted their movements. They may have still been looking for food on the ground. Being inexperienced I had a lot to learn about chicken psychology and how to interpret their movements.

It didn’t take long to realise that I needed to further mend some of the holes in the coop. I had no idea they could get through such tiny holes in the wire, especially Yoko. We soon got into a routine and apart from the ongoing drama with food, or perhaps more accurately lack of food, we became a nice happy family. Some say the lack of eggs was a result of poor nutrition. I ,however, think it was because they were embarrassed to lay in front of everybody else. It was a rather open floor plan inside the coop. It didn’t matter. I was a real chicken owner, even if my neighbours weren’t really impressed. Who cared if they gave us many eggs?

One afternoon, as I was checking under their butts to see if they had a hidden egg, I noticed Sheryl was looking a little melancholy. True, she hadn’t laid many eggs and I surmised she was a little down about it all. I gave her a little pep talk which she mostly ignored. Upon closer inspection though, I noticed it was more than depression and thought perhaps I needed to take her to my neighbour, the self-proclaimed chicken expert.

“No problem,” he said confidently, “your chicken has chicken flu.” He refused to call her by her name and only referred to her as "your chicken." I ignored the rudeness and followed him into his kitchen with Sheryl in tow. Behind a dingy piece of green fabric that acted as a cabinet door, he began pulling out his secret family recipe that was meant to cure all chickens in such events. I had no choice but to trust him and consequently took the seat of a learner in chicken healing. On the table lay several items which would be made into a thickish sort of paste:

• 1 tablespoon of crushed red pepper
• 1 clove of freshly pressed garlic
• a pinch of black pepper
• a pinch of bread crumbs (to add thickness)
• 2 tablespoons of normal variety Vodka

I was instructed that upon every hour, or two at the most, I was to feed Sheryl this miracle cure and by morning all would be well. It had been used for generations of proud chicken owners everywhere, of which I was now one. “Oh,” he said as Sheryl and I walked through his front gate, “Make sure you keep your chicken separated from the rest of the chickens. You don’t want them to be ill as well.”

“Her name is Sheryl,” I spoke in her defense. As it was good advice I decided to forget his unwillingness to call her by her proper name and headed home.

If I’d had a chicken owner’s manual, I could have learned how to feed miracle paste to an ill chicken. An eyedropper would have been the most sensible solution, but you have to remember, we were not living in the most sophisticated of places with a chemist shop on every corner. I could have probably found a chicken eyedropper on the black market, but considering Sheryl’s poor state of health I didn’t feel I had the time to devote to such a hunt.

I grabbed a teaspoon and held her gently between my legs. Opening her beak was not so easy, as I had seen the expert do in the market, but I was determined to do this on my own. I already suspected my neighbour was mimicking me behind my back, so I refused to seek further help. Trying to get a teaspoon in a chicken’s mouth isn’t easy. Using a combination of the spoon and putting the formulae between my fingertips and stuffing it down her beak, I finally succeeded with the first dose. Massaging her neck and singing softly to her was probably the best trick I learned. She loved ‘Old MacDonald.’ I was afraid I would never have enough paste to outlast her illness as most of it was now on me. However, I had the recipe and apart from the vodka could make more with little trouble. Even though this was considered a Muslim country, Uzbekistan still had a lot of Russian influence– vodka was one of the most noticeable things that carried over. I let Sheryl loose in my kitchen and made her a little bed in the corner by the water heater for relaxation and recuperation. I couldn’t help but feel quite proud of my achievement and now began to realise what owning chickens was all about. It felt good to be a chicken dad.

As night came around I was determined to keep on schedule and set my alarm so I could nurse her back to health. One o’clock came and by now I was getting the hang of it. She fought me a little, but I think she realised it was for her own good. Three o’clock, all was well. It may have been that I was half asleep, but I seem to recall her readily opening her mouth when the spoon came near. She was such a good patient. Next time I set the alarm for 4:30 and stumbled from my stupor to give medicine to her. Being a chicken dad was not as easy as one might think. It was then that I discovered Sheryl was feeling fine. I mean f-i-n-e!

I opened the door to the kitchen and found her flapping her wings, dancing on the kitchen table. With her feathers all fluffed out, she looked twice her size. WOW! This really was a cure. Sheryl was fully restored. I was half expecting her to pop out an egg or two any moment. I think it might have had something to do with the vodka. Either way, she was happy. Her beak was glistening and I was sleepy as hell.

We skipped the 4:30 dose as I was now convinced Sheryl was a new girl. I turned out the lights and left her clucking around the kitchen. I would take her back to her friends later. I couldn’t wait to tell my neighbour.

As I had a broken sleep and was no longer concerned about Sheryl I didn’t rise as early as normal. When I finally awoke I entered the kitchen, expecting to see her making breakfast. Sadly I found her in her bed in the corner. Sheryl had died sometime between her tango on the kitchen table and my arrival at her bedside. It was a very short-lived miracle. I considered trying mouth-to-beak resuscitation, but when I picked her up rigormortis was setting in. As I held her close in my arms, with tears in my eyes, I noticed a little smile on her face. At least she died happy… thanks to the vodka.