Since the tragic loss of the exceptional and beloved pet chicken Friendly last fall (I’m still sad), all the other chickens, indistinguishable in looks and behavior, have been just Chicken. Even Naked, once her proud new plumage got a bit dingy, disappeared into the flock.
Now that the hens have been released, there’s one chicken distinguishing herself.
Typically there are three hens that stick very close to the rooster. His girlfriends. They cuddle with him at night while the other four perch over the nest boxes. When he food clucks, the girlfriends dash up to him (as HW says, “Whatcha got, big Daddy?”), and the other hens barely glance up, rolling their eyes, “It’s probably just a stick again”.
Continue reading A chicken worthy of a name?
Me: walking with some tools in a bucket. I happen to be passing near the greenhouse.
Rooster: tall neck, warning clucks.
Hens: freeze mid-step like it’s Simon Says. Outliers start to creep back towards the rooster and the group.
Me: nonchalantly stroll past the hens, feeling examined.
Hens and rooster: excited murmurs- Was that a bucket? Psst, bucket! She was definitely carrying a bucket! Bucket! Whisk, whisk, whisk (the sound of chicken thighs rubbing together)- pursuit of the bucket ensues.
Me: sharp turn to see if I’m being followed.
Hens: Freeze! What? We were just, uh, hanging out. Right.
Me: Wave clipboard at them in lieu of hat. Hens pretend to retreat, none of us are fooled.
Repeat from whisk, whisk, whisk…