Memorable Chickens

He likes his Starbucks.

There are really only two reasons why we have chickens.  My husband likes them because they lay eggs he can sell to support his Starbucks habit; I like them for the company.  Since we threw out our tv a year ago, the birds have been my entertainment.  They kibitz like tiny Bundys and lounge about like Sugarbaker sisters.  They hunt down their prey like small, feathered, merciless Jack Bauers.  But at the same time, occasionally, they are unexpectedly kind, and over the years, some have been truly memorable.

Our first chicken was Henrietta, a small Barred Rock who had been raised as a pet by a four-year-old.  We bought her from the little girl’s grandfather at his house beside the railroad track on Eubanks Road.  He told us how his granddaughter had cared for the little hen and asked us if we would mind taking a runt.  Kind old man.  But then, without so much as a faretheewell, he snared Henrietta with a crab net and tossed her into our box.  At home, we called her Henry.  Gentle bird, she slept on the porch rail outside our door and, always thin, she came inside on winter evenings to eat baked potatoes with sour cream on the kitchen sink.  We don't know what killed her, but it left nothing more than a perfect ring of feathers and her craw, still filled with corn.   Our Rottweiller Roxanne slept 20 feet away.  It was mid-afternoon



Henrietta

Then there was Frankie, who came over the fence to join our flock after hers was massacred by a teenaged raccoon.  Our neighbors Richard and Betsy had called her Francoise when she lived with them, but after she walked through the woods and across all that open country by herself, to a flock she had only heard in the distance, she became just plain Frankie.


Miss Janie Mangum gave us the singing hen.  Miss Janie had sold the rest of her flock earlier, and in the process the singing hen had wound up on the truck by mistake.  She had sung out to let Miss Janie know and Miss Janie had rescued her and brought her to us.  Miss Janie loved that bird and knew her voice, but I could never distinguish it. I was never quite sure Miss Janie had gotten the right bird off the truck that day, and I only hope we actually had the singing hen and that she lived a good life.

Mom Chick hatched and raised little Peep, the only chicken to live her entire life on our property. Because of Mom Chick, Peep was born free and grew up without ever knowing a cage. Thank you, Mom Chick.

Sue Ellen was a contemporary of Henrietta. She used to stand by and watch the little bird get special attention, and after Henrietta died, she worked hard to take her place. Sue Ellen liked to sit on the arm of my rocking chair to eat green grapes and ice cream. When I worked in my garden, she crowded under me to get the worms I dug up, and when I mowed the lawn she walked along beside me, picking off the crickets and grasshoppers that escaped the blade. She laid eggs that were too big to fit even into extra-large cartons but made great gifts for our friends. And with no rooster on the property, she led her flock for 5 years without event. That may not sound like much, but if a hen's skills are not up to the job, she can be a heavy-handed leader whose tenure is marked by cruelty and dissension. We didn’t learn that until after Sue Ellen had died, because during her reign we had peace.



Sue Ellen

Since Sue Ellen, we have had two dynasties of roosters, the Barred Rock Beauregards and Rhode Island Roy.  Beauregard I was a breeding loaner, with us for only a short time.  He was a very tall rooster who, for some anomaly of genetics or habit, goose stepped with straight legs like a Wehrmacht soldier.


Beauregard II died young.  He was murdered by a hawk while crowing the alarm from a fallen log. The hawk, no bigger than Beauregard himself, landed with one foot on the rooster's head, a talon in each temple, and killed him on the spot.



Beauregard III

 Beauregard III stayed with us for seven years, god help us. He was a cautious, neurotic, and aggressive bird, unsafe for small children, hated and feared by pet sitters, visitors, and my husband alike.  But he was devoted to his hens, and to his credit, he never lost one.  His hens loved him and his chicken yard was peaceful and orderly.  In return, I admired and appreciated him.  Sure, he was scary, but Good Grief, he was only two feet tall -- how much damage could he really do?

After Beuaregard died, we retired the name and the breed and call our new rooster Rhode Island Roy.  I hand raised Roy almost from a chick, hoping someday he would ride on my shoulder like a macaw or pull a wagon like a rooster I've seen in photos.  But instead, Roy followed in Beauregard's path.  When he reached puberty, his outlook soured, and by the time his spurs matured, he had become a danger to us all.  But this time I took matters in hand.  If you have an aggressive rooster, you may be interested in this.

Whenever I saw Roy coming at me, I turned to face him and stuck out my foot, sole up (don't try this without good stout shoes), as a target, and he bounced off it, no harm done.  Being repelled seemed to confuse him.  He would stagger to his feet, regain his composure, and come at me again, until eventually he wore himself out.  Then, if I could manage it, I would catch him by the tail feathers and hold him down for a few minutes, which he hated.  The key was to block his assault without hurting him.  Chickens are delicate; one good kick can be fatal.  You have to hold your foot still.

Surprisingly, Roy was a fast learner.  I think within a week or so, I became top rooster and he stopped attacking me.  For awhile, he occasionally looked askance at me or even started toward me, but he never followed through.  I just turned to face him, which made him stop, think, and then go on to something else.  These days, he is trusting enough to turn his back on me, and he passes under my arm to come and go from his yard.  In the past couple of weeks, he has been eating figs out of my hand and it's been more than a year since our last encounter.

The payoff for having Roy on the property is huge. After a period of anarchy when the Mean Girls tried and failed to lead the flock, Roy has returned peace to our chicken yard.  By sheer force of personality, he manages for the most part to keep his women out of my flower beds, and for that I am wholeheartedly in his debt.

I hope Roy will be with us for a long time.  Already, he is memorable.