Chickens Are Love

I was in  the chicken coop saying  good night to my hens and doing the normal head count. There was blood. Not a lot but just enough here and there to know something was amiss. This is my first batch of chickens and they are ageing at over two and  one half years old. I always hear chickens can live a long time. But I’ve lost three chickens of late, I’m getting squeamish and every ailment or abnormal behavior has me racing to the Gail Damerow poultry book. My girls are slowly slipping away---and I’m so attached it’s hard to accept that their passing is a normal process.

I was in the coop watching ten birds jostling for their evening places and they weren’t going to stop to point out who was ailing in the flock. So I quietly observed until I saw Combover, her backside had a scratch and for whatever reason, this overweight gal is a bleeder. I swear that the force of her mass keeps a constant pressure on her exterior that prevents her from clotting. In the past two months I’ve fretted whenever she has a sore or a cut, applying liquids, jellies and finally resorting to a horrible purple spray paint substance called Blu-Kote, which claims anti-microbial properties. I’m not a fan, but it’s the only thing that stays stuck to Combover and prevents her and her coop-mates from further agitating her injuries. And so I learn to live with a Plymouth Barred Rock chicken that happens to be black, white and the not so normal polk- a-dot purple.

My chicken rearing started on a whim. My husband Rob, (then boyfriend) had taken a job in Santa Monica, California but I opted to stay in Vermont. In the brief time that he was gone I decided that I was going to fulfill my dream of raising chickens. And I think it was just as much a shock to me as it was to him that I decided to get chickens in his absence.

Lucky for me and the girls, Rob decided that California wasn’t where he wanted to work and live and returned home. He returned to both our bathrooms filled with tubs of little, downy-soft chirping bodies, vying for the warmth of the brooder lights. And no chicken coop!

Rob couldn’t build a coop fast enough. He claimed that the incessant chirping kept him up at night. And the dust from their feed was another story. But how I loved those little chicks! I didn’t mind that we spent every moment hammering wood together, painting, attaching chicken wire, etc. to create a home for the new addition to our lives. Rob thought I was crazy. (And for the record still does).

I don’t regret for a moment the choice to incorporate chickens into our lives. They bring me such joy and happiness as I watch them on a daily basis. Each has her own personality. I have chickens that follow me around when I garden, hopping into holes that I dig, looking for earthworms. The highest on the pecking order is Biggie Fry who thinks she needs to oversee everything including when it comes to her humans. Guest are followed closely by her watchful eye to make sure she’s not missing out on any of the fun and to be sure that guest conduct themselves appropriately. Good Red jumps on my lap with the grace of a gymnast, earning her the nickname Mary Lou Retton. Baby will trot behind me and constantly cry. A recent guest asked what the name of the chicken was that kept following us that I would say “shhhh Baby” to. When I told her it was Baby she just looked at me dumbfounded. And Baby looked up at her and cried some more, obviously she wanted to be part of the conversation.

I undertook raising poultry because I wanted to raise animals that would provide us with food. We were also getting more serious with our vegetable gardens and had erected a small hoop house to extend our production season. We’ve even had multiple discussions about raising meat birds, something that has been put on hold for two seasons now. What I never would have guessed is how much chickens can be love. I have chickens that jump up on my lap for a snuggle. They show delightful curiosity and in general are impossible not to watch in utter fascination-because you just don’t know what their next move will be.

Tomorrow, my husband will hold Combover, my rather large hen, while I spray her with Blu-Kote. And at Chicken Hill Gardens, nine of the most spoiled, past their prime, egg-layers will look on for a moment until their attention is drawn elsewhere.