When Chickens Ruled the Roost

We had a flock of chickens once. I grew up on a farm, so I thought I knew all about chickens. I remember my mother ordering them and having them shipped special delivery to our general store. She thought about her order carefully; Rhode Island Reds were the hardiest, Leghorns laid the most eggs, Plymouth Rock were the most dependable. They had to be balanced, so that we would have eggs all year. When my father brought them home, there were at least one hundred chicks crowded together in a box with holes in the sides. My sisters and I were allowed to gently pick some of them up and stroke them for a few seconds.

“Don’t get too attached to them, my mother would say, “I have to feed and water them and get them into the coop and under the heater right away. But you can help me look after them when they are bigger.”

We wanted to raise chickens for the organic eggs

So when we decided to raise chickens on our acreage so my family could have organic eggs, I thought I was ahead of the game. I knew what to do. We bought six hens and one rooster from a neighboring farm, so we could have a daily supply of fresh eggs. We would not only have eggs, we could use them for meat as well. My mother used to make a chicken last at least three meals—roast on Sunday, sandwiches on Tuesday, soup on Monday. I was all ready to bring that back. My mother would be proud!

The chickens came in crates. My husband unloaded the chickens and drove off immediately to return the crates. The six hens and rooster stood around for a bit, assessing the situation. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. Eventually the chickens started to explore their new home. The rooster started scratching in the driveway, clucking away to the hens. He apparently found some food in the bare gravel. Anything for attention, I thought. One of the chickens took to high stepping around the others. I guess she would be the dominant one, I noted, remembering the events in the chicken yards of my childhood. Well, let them explore, I decided. Soon we’ll put them in the chicken coop, safe and sound and out of the way.

I thought the children would be afraid of the chickens

Suddenly I heard a shriek. It was my six year-old daughter, Janie, making a beeline for the chickens.

“Lookit, Andy” she was saying, “Big birdies!”

Her brother came speeding around the corner, riding his bike.”Let’s pet them!” he said, as he jumped off .

“Nooooo!” I said, “Nooooo! No touching, No petting. They’re not pets!”

In a split second, they were each cradling a chicken. I expected the chickens to wriggle free and run away. Chickens don’t normally like to be held and petted. Any chicken I had ever seen would run a mile rather than be caught and possibly end up on a chopping block. But not these chickens. No, they snuggled into the arms of the children, clucking and cooing like pet cockatoos.

It was all downhill from there.

That evening, the children and I settled the chickens inside the coop. They lined the nests with fresh straw. They sprinkled grain around in case they were hungry. They waited around until they were sure the chickens were asleep. The next day was Monday, and school. I was thankful for the break. All I’d heard since yesterday afternoon was: chickens this, and chickens that. I wish we’d never bought the blessed things!

It turned out the chickens were individuals

And another thing. They were no longer chickens. They were Blackey, Becky, Scratchy, Speckally, Whitey, and Chickey. The rooster was Reddy. Blackey and Reddy wouldn’t come when the kids tossed grain—they preferred to eat the bugs in the yard. Scratchy and Speckally chased each other constantly. Speckally liked to boss Scratchy around. Whitey and Becky were always taking dust baths. And Chickey was happiest when she was riding on the handlebars of Janie’s tricycle!

They all liked to be picked up and petted. I gave up telling the children chickens weren’t pets. I gave up trying to keep the pesky things in the chicken coop. I decided to ignore the whole situation. Life went on. The chickens were happy, the children were ecstatic, I was a little grumpy, but what the heck. Life wasn’t always perfect on the farm.

One day, when the children were both outside, playing with the chickens, I thought things were too quiet (usually not a good sign) so I went out to investigate. Both children were coming out of the chicken coop, big smiles all around.

“Lookit what we found,” Andy said, opening his hand.

An egg.