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Enemies At The Borderlands
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| image: Mother Earth News |
Michael McCarty, Contributor
Activist Post
It must be fair to say that human beings strive to be liked by other
humans. Most of us not only want this, but need it. We crave acceptance
and approval like a potted plant thirsts for water and nourishment. For
some, it is most uncomfortable and worrisome to know that another person
not only dislikes them, but despises them.
Hatred aimed and focused in
your direction can be a devastating and brutish weapon, and it can knot
and shrivel your innards if you let it. A man who tells you different is
either completely oblivious or tragically dishonest to himself. I know,
for I’ve experienced such mind-numbing hatred from another person for
the last several months. It does not lessen the confusion and pain to
know that it is all because of pet dogs and dead chickens.
My wife and I raise rabbits, squab, and chickens for our family table
on our small acreage in the rocky mountains. It is a mostly simple and
worthy task. We enjoy the daily chores and the opportunity to be more
closely involved with our food. It gives us purpose and slows the spin
within the ever-tightening death spiral of the rulers’ world, hoping
that our example will encourage others to change their ways or stay the
truer course. Our part is small and the hour late, but we can only hope
that a small awareness in ourselves leads to better days for all. Hands-on food and an honest meal can do no harm. Some people, however, seem to
have a genuine knack and desire for havoc and assault. It is the
promise of the end of something good and inherently pure that drives
them.
We have tried to be respectful and considerate neighbors. It’s not
that hard to do. Large tracts of open space surround us on three sides.
To our north lies the Flat Tops Wilderness, and mostly other wild lands
up to the Canadian border. We favored our closest neighbor and built our
bird pens and coops about as far away as possible to reduce the chance
of conflict or complaint. We tried to inform them of our plans, and
offered to resolve any problems in advance. We built and repaired
hundreds of feet of border fence without thanks or any offer of
assistance. Instead, we offered ourselves if needed, and eggs from
our happy hens, and other backyard bounty. We owned up to the joys of
“manure management” and odor control, and in fact adored the results it
produced when applied to our gardens. It mattered not at all, for their
dogs came anyway and killed them, without consideration or remorse.
The same dogs have come several times over many months, as we were
never quite able to completely finish the fence. It didn’t matter that
in Colorado it is the dog owner’s responsibility to control the
wanderings of their dogs. It didn’t matter that our property
possesses the proper zoning, and that we had broken no laws. It didn’t
matter that we have always limited the amount of time that our birds
have free ranged on open pasture, and under a close eye at that. It
never mattered that Colorado is a “Right To Farm” State, or that our
property was once a poultry farm long before we, or our neighbors,
thought to live here. What matters is that our chickens are still very
dead, and that our neighbors apparently hate us beyond all measure of
rationality and reciprocity, because we had the audacity to ask to be
compensated for our loss. Until then, I never imagined that chickens
and farm animals could generate so much disdain and consuming hatred
within a human soul.
Of course, the officers of animal control responded to our calls, the
police consulted and reported, and the court evaluated and judged. We
have been compensated monetarily to some extent. But, still, somehow the
compensation never comes close to filling the emptiness left behind. It
does not compensate for the destruction of one’s peace of mind, nor aid
in the eternal quest of a lost ideal. We don’t ask for much. But we
would occasionally like to hold the world of deceivers and brain addled
man-children at bay for a few precious moments in time, and latch onto
something real long enough to remember what that is.
It’s a life’s work to look evil in the eye and make it blink, without
first succumbing to the overwhelming need to falter and sprint for
cover. In my case, it certainly does not help when your chicken-hating
neighbor is every bit of 6′ 6″, and then some, and looks like he could
still hold his own on the college basketball court. He has no doubt held
off countless opponents from an uncontested spot beneath the basket. I
would not like to be on the receiving end of a slashing and blindsided
elbow. To say the least, my neighbor is a rather intimidating fellow,
and his body language and practiced glare would make a snarling badger
turn inside out and pass himself in panicked flight. Like all petty
enforcers and sadistic bone breakers, he is used to getting what he
wants, or disposing of what he does not want. He has made it clear that
he does not want us to have the pleasure of our chickens. They will be
gone, of that he is sure. In his mind, there must be an angle from which
to triangulate, and an actionable course to pursue.
Still, I must stand my ground in the face of the onslaught. Farms and
farming are suffering under a withering and unconscionable attack in
this country, every day, from every direction imaginable. Big business
and big government collude and conspire against us, with malice aforethought. Little government works overtime to impress their corrupt
handlers, with some special attention for anyone who points out their
dirty workings. Urban and suburban values collide with escalating force
as the job market and the economy implodes, leaving the common person to
pick up the crumbs from their festering carcasses. You want to raise
and sell some poultry from your own property, you say? Well, we don’t
think so!
We let it get this bad because we never saw it coming. A good person
cannot think through the mind of a plotting and scheming beast. We
simply cannot originate the concept of fluoridated and toxic waters
promulgated to wash down chemically saturated non-food, while making it
illegal to have a home garden, as they dream up new ways to criminalize
the art of chicken keeping.
As with others locked in this terrible struggle, I will stand and
fight because I must. Like all proper dinosaurs I will see my end soon
enough, or perhaps grow wings like the bird they became and fly through
the bombardment unscathed. I will fight for my right and your right to
become just a little more self-sufficient and defiantly independent, and
help you hold up a big, bold, handful of personal dignity towards the
light.
After all, like many of you, I have already pledged to spit in the eye
of the county health department, the USDA, The FDA, and any other
alphabet soup agency or freedom-hating tyrant.
The enemies of the borderlands are vast and most cleverly devious.
They lurk at the edges of our lovingly protected world, while hungrily
plotting the death of our way of life. Compared to them, just how bad can
one really giant fire-breathing neighbor be?
Our intimidators simply cannot prevail, and we refuse to own their
hatred. We will not allow it, and our travails and hardships will be
replaced with joy and forgiveness. Here’s to hoping, and praying, that
it can only hurt for a little bit, and that things will look much better
when it’s over.
We have the power of the chicken and her friends, and
the righteousness of the good fight, on our side. Food Freedom!
Michael Patrick McCarty earned a B.S. Degree in Wildlife Biology from Colorado State University. He has worked in both the public and private sectors in a variety of capacities relating to fisheries and wildlife biology, water and environmental quality, and outdoor recreation. Michael and his wife steward a small acreage they have named Peach Valley Heritage Farms. It’s a “work in progress” for sure, but a little piece of heaven in the Rockies, just the same. Their work can be found at The Backyard Provider.
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