hoosiermandy

Being the zenith of unadulterated freakiness, Halloween usually tops my list for coolest holidays. When else can people transform into something beyond imagination?

Too bad we imagine the worst possible outfits for our pets as well. You’ve seen the poor Bulldog dressed as a fat bumblebee or the Doberman frocked in a red cape while fabric devil horns are harnessed with elastic around his chin. Whose mailbox did these unfortunate creatures pee upon to deserve such sadistic, albeit entertaining, treatment?

Suddenly I realize my hypocrisy. Long ago, I too crafted a costume for an unwilling animal and paraded them around a stage. Only the competition I entered wasn’t for Halloween. Nor was my cowering prey a dog. Once upon a time, I dressed poultry. And, I don’t mean shoving Stovetop stuffing up a dead bird’s privates.

Let me explain. My grandfather owned all sorts of chickens. But these chickens were never to eat, but to show. Every year, Papa prepared the best of his flock to enter the Miss Universe of poultry contests: The Kentucky State Fair. Each bird had to be washed with Dawn dish soap and blow-dried with an actual salon drier. I kid you not. Back in the day, we were the Jose Ebers of the pullet world. I’d tell you how you have to hold a chicken (by the feet with the breast and wings facing toward the palm of your hand), but you might tire of my good ‘ole girl routine rather quickly.

Papa entered the chicken game in pursuit of fame. The top prize, based mostly on the appearance of the poultry, was Grand Champion. My grandfather won this title once. He promptly had a professional photo made of the charming victor and ushered her home to start reproducing. Her offspring actually fetched $150 a pair. I think he was more proud of that damn hen then he was of my high school graduation. This is the sorted world of championship chickens.

In addition to Grand Champion, fair entrants also had the ability to register for two separate contests. Of course, the exhibition had a crowing contest. For 15 minutes, roosters were placed side by side in cages while judges tallied just how many times each contestant crowed. To win a round, the gallant fowls generally coughed up about 20 screeches. My grandfather had a special trick. He always placed the rooster in a dark crate for several hours before a meet. Remember how roosters like to crow in the morning? Papa’s nighttime simulation tricked an old feather foot into winning him a title. Oh, what we do for a rosette.

Another challenge the fair sponsored was the Costume Poultry contest. Only children could enter. For some reason, my mother and grandfather nominated me for the task. Dressing a chicken is not easy. They can’t wear pants, so you must make tiny little leg warmers for them that fasten with Velcro. Hats always need a rubber band looped under them to fit on the chicken’s craw. Trust me, birds like tight things around their throats just about as much as they love Colonel Sanders’ secret recipe. So this was a task in itself.

But the trickiest part of dressing up a chicken is getting it to walk on a leash. This takes practice, not to mention the right selection of that special chicken. Normally, we’d just tie a piece of string around the bird’s little leg. Birchen Modern Game, a breed of chicken, worked the best. They had the longest legs and liked to strut their stuff. I imagine them to stomp the catwalk like Heidi Klum, although the chicks might have slightly meatier breasts.

As for my own brush with fame, I competed in the contest three separate times. First, we dressed a rooster named Ronald Reagan to look like Daniel Boone. He had the gun, coonskin cap and everything. We lost. Obviously the judges, like the media, had a liberal bias.

The next year, I decided a male and female might be the key to winning. As I presented Rhett Butler and Scarlett O’Hara to the audience, Scarlett managed to undress in the blink of an eye. A true southern belle she was not. As I was trying to clothe Ms. Prissy Pants, Rhett escaped and ran under the judge’s table. Mr. Butler was always such a cad. Needless to say, I lost again.

Finally, the year I turned 13, I tried yet again to succeed in winning the championship. This time, we chose a young pullet and dressed her as Annie Oakley. Really, it was just Reagan’s outfit revisited, but let’s not give away too many secrets. Sure, I might have not been the cutest (the Courier Journal at the time wrote an article proclaiming this) but I definitely had the best-dressed clucker. We won $250 and the blue ribbon. And unlike Vanessa Williams, I got to keep my hard won title for a full year. Too bad they didn’t create a sash to immortalize the occasion.

In retrospect, dressing chickens was somewhat fun. I bonded with the poultry. One was named Louise Mandrell. Yes, even back then I worshipped stars. And Louise was the coolest, although least appreciated, of the Mandrell sisters. Anyway, my Louise was blind. After her stint in the big show, she was able to live out her life pecking in the yard. That was until a neighbor dog decided to snatch her for a tasty snack. Seeing a blind chicken trying to escape from a German Shepherd is not a fun thing to witness. I cried about Louise’s heinous murder for days. To many people, she was supper. But to me, she was Scarlett.

So have fun, dog owners of the world. Connect with your animals on this primal, fashion forward level. Lord knows most of you don’t have children to do this with. And if you’re looking for a challenge, grab a chicken and a child and enter the Kentucky State Fair’s 2012 Costume Poultry Contest. Maybe you cannot only create some pretty cool memories, but win a splendid sash as well.

Tags: chickens, contests, costumes, humor, pets