Peep and Pep

The story of Peep and Pep is a cautionary tale.

There is a process that’s been around for many decades where they inject dye into an egg that’s incubating and the baby chick that hatches takes on the color. This procedure is now illegal in some states, but not all.

When my wife Judy was roughly 9 or 10, way back circa 1960, she was coming home from a movie matinee with her best friend Donna and they stopped off at a dime store that was selling colored chicks for 15 cents. Judy was delighted with her Easter-green pet and she promptly named it Peep.

Not long after, Judy’s younger brother Barry wanted one too. So Barry ended up with an orange chick that Judy named Pep.

Peep and Pep eventually shed their green and orange feathers and grew into white roosters that chased Judy and Donna around, pecking at their heels. Judy says it was more Peep than Pep.

Judy and Donna would sit out on Judy’s doorstep and pet Peep who was more social than Pep. Peep would nestle on your lap, close his eyes and rest his head, making low cooing sounds.

Okay.

In a civil society, that would be a good place to stop. Orson Welles once quipped that a happy ending is always possible, depending on where you end the story.

Flash forward 60-something years where I find myself sitting at the dinner table on Palm Sunday with family gathered around. The youngest person at the table is our 7-year-old granddaughter.

So.

It was towards the end of the meal. I have no idea how we got on the subject of Peep and Pep, but all of a sudden, Judy the storyteller was engaging the table. One of the things I love about Judy is most of the time, I have absolutely no idea what she’s going to say. As you can imagine, that superpower comes with edges. I just never know.

Our granddaughter was a rapt audience, hearing all about green and orange chicks that both grew up into white roosters – listening with amusement as Judy described the chickens crowing in the yard in between chasing people and pecking at their heels.

Judy locked eyes with the granddaughter and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “But then one day…”

And that’s when I thought to myself, “Oh, fuck, here we go. What is this bullshit?”

And we went there. We went full-on cautionary.

Judy explained how Peep came to a bad end. A hog escaped from a neighboring property and managed to make off with her squawking rooster. Judy’s mother grabbed a pipe and chased the hog down the street, but the hog escaped into the woods and Peep was never seen again.

Okay. Read the room in your head. You have to imagine the looks on the faces at the table. Mouths slightly agape, some forks suspended in mid-air.

Judy goes on to tell us how badly she felt after losing her pet, especially to such awful circumstances. She lamented how lonely Pep was. He would go out and crow, “All by himself, almost like he was calling for his lost friend. It was very sad. We all felt really sorry for Pep.”

Our granddaughter is on the edge of her seat. “And then what happened?”

Alright.

So this is already a messed up story. They inject you with dye before you’re even born, but then you adjust and think things are going along okay chicken-wise, and then BAM! Eaten alive by a random hog passing through.

When my granddaughter wanted to know what happened next, I had no idea the story got worse. I had an inkling of fear, a sense of dread, but I held onto a tenuous shred of hope.

No. Everyone get in the car. We’re gonna drive dangerously fast for a while.

“Mama had a friend come over to wring Pep’s neck.”

The car’s going really fast. Brakes, you’re thinking. Brakes.

No. No brakes.

“And then I watched Mama pull all his feathers out on the porch.”

Okay, no.

Brakes!

No. No brakes.

Judy went on to describe how her mother cleaned Pep on their kitchen counter. Judy was fascinated that all the innards came out so smoothly. Pep got chopped up, breaded, and morphed into fried chicken for dinner.

Judy’s little brother Barry declined to eat any of his pet.

End of story.

My granddaughter’s eyes are like saucers. Riveted.

I’m concerned she’s traumatized. Permanently scarred.

Then my granddaughter smiles widely and blurts out, “I want Oma to tell me the Peep and Pep story again when I go to bed tonight!”

Okay. Different world. Still trying to wrap my head around things. When the granddaughter visited on Easter weekend, she was happy to report she’d regaled no less than 9 of her classmates with the Peep and Pep story during the week.

“Oh. What was their favorite part?”

“The part where Pep gets ripped apart and eaten.” Grinning from ear to ear.

“Oh.”

Yeah.

Some days I’m just here for the entertainment.