My Review of Ohio City Airbnbs

Airbnb office sign Credit: Open Scheduler Grid/FlickrCC

When we got chickens, we started with 3 baby chicks. Did you know chicks are only about 1$ each, if you get them as babies? We named them after women’s names from a very raunchy rap song called “Freak a Leek,” because in that song they list about a dozen names and we knew that we would experience chicken turnover (don’t listen to the song). We started with Shamika, Lisa, and Dehronda. Shamika was in the first flock and lived up until the end as our last surviving chicken. Later we also had Monique, Crystal, Tara, Yolanda, and Christina that we bought as pullets (adolescent chickens). They had a cute little coop in the back of our Ohio City yard, sandwiched between a home with two young children and an Airbnb.

Shamika was a fierce Easter egger that laid green eggs with a beard, while Lisa and Dehronda were both Buff Orpingtons: hailed as the golden retriever of chickens. All three, raised since they were babies in my care. Shamika grew to be kind of a diva, chasing our cats and generally causing a ruckus as the alpha. Lisa and Dehronda were gentle and kind. They liked to sit in my lap and loved being fed treats. They lived happily together for about two years.

One day I went to let them out in the morning, like all mornings, and something was wrong with Dehronda. She exhibited an ataxia phenotype and was not very mobile. When she would move she would only run in a circle. As a chicken keeper, I knew the first thing to do was to quarantine her, in the event it was viral or bacterial. We had an unfinished basement so I moved her inside into the basement until she recovered. My husband ran to the store and got Pedialyte, and I would hold her and hand feed her multiple times a day. This went on for more than a week. I was also about seven months pregnant at the time, so some maternal instincts kicking in. I really bonded with her, but she was minimally improving. I realized it was likely permanent brain damage and tried to introduce her to her flock to get her out of the basement (now covered in chicken poop), but Shamika rejected her immediately. Knowing she couldn’t live forever with brain damage in our basement, shitting everywhere on the floor, I knew euthanasia was the best option.

I called some vets who thought I was crazy, and said the only chicken euthanasia clinics were hours away in farm towns. I’m a research scientist and at this point wanted to also identify as a farmer so said I will do this myself. If I can raise chickens I should also be able to euthanize them. I thought about collecting meat, but at seven months pregnant didn’t want to take on the risk since she did have brain damage. So humane euthanasia was the route. After reading, cervical dislocation came out on top for route of euthanasia. Piece of cake, I’m a scientist, I’ve done this thousands of times.

It was a Thursday evening and I thought to make sure the young boys on the one side of the house didn’t see me kill a chicken I should do it close to that fence (in plain view of the Airbnb). I put her to sleep medicinally and then attempted cervical dislocation – but – chickens are much larger than the small rodents I am used to. Her vertebrae were ginormous and my small hands couldn’t really get it to work. I’m down on the ground, seven months pregnant, wearing one of those “little house on the prairie” looking maternity dresses from Target. She starts waking up and flapping her wings a little, neck partially broken. At this point I start yelling to my husband to meet me at the back door with a butcher knife (he refused to take a part in this, huge aversion to blood). At seven months pregnant, after hand feeding this chicken for a week, I have attached more than I had admitted to myself. Now I’m yelling and crying at the top of my lungs “I’m sorry Dehronda! I’m so sorry Dehronda!” as I chop her head off with the butcher knife.

I’m standing there, prairie dress billowing in the breeze, sobbing, covered in blood and feathers, seven months pregnant, gripping onto a bloody butcher knife. I stand up to go get a trash bag for the body and when I turn around, I noticed that an entire bachelor party at some point during this had arrived at the Airbnb and come outside. They were all just staring blankly at me in silence, holding their unopened beers.

I considered saying something, anything, to break the spell. Maybe offer them eggs? Apologize for the unorthodox floorshow? But words failed me, and they retreated indoors, presumably to re-evaluate their Airbnb search parameters and, perhaps, their understanding of the lyrics to “Freak a Leek.”

Because if you listen to “Freak a Leek,” you might expect your weekend in Ohio City to be full of wild, unforgettable encounters with Dehronda, Monique, Crystal, Tara, Yolanda, Lisa, Shamika, and Christina. But for this group of bachelors, the only chicks they met were covered in feathers, and the only action they witnessed involved a sobbing, pregnant woman wielding a butcher knife.

I suppose that’s the thing about expectations: sometimes you think you’re signing up for a party house, and instead you get a front-row seat to poultry euthanasia. So for Airbnbs in Ohio City, the chicks are a little different, the freaks are abundant, and regardless of how much you enjoy your stay you will certainly have an unforgettable time.

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