One Out of Six Ain't Bad

My husband and I have had chickens for fifteen years, more or less.  They make good pets, eat food that has expired or you've lost interest in, and occasionally give you eggs.  That is unless you're Bitch Bird, who hordes her eggs in far away places.  One realizes she's up to something when she goes about her business, only to stop and suddenly display a certain calculating expression.  Then she waits until no one is looking and disappears --- at first for hours, then days.  Eventually, after many a repetitive search, we find her little blonde body spread out over dozen green, infertile eggs.  Bitch Bird deserves credit for being broody, though --- all the other hens we've ever had have been the lay 'em and leave 'em type.

I'll take that back about chickens being good pets.  Sure, we've heard about all those hens that get in your lap when you sit down, but it seems the little bantys we always get are of the more independent, high-strung type.  We did have one that would follow us around and once got in the Prius as we were packing for a trip, but that's about the most allegiance a bantam hen has ever displayed to us.  The trade off is that they're much thriftier to feed and a much smaller, faster target for predators.  And honestly, when do you really need an extra large egg?  If you're a poor enough cook not to be able to guesstimate the equivalence of medium eggs in a recipe, go buy a dozen jumbos at the store.

Bitch Bird --- uh, Beebe --- with her full-size stepchildren last summer.

Bitch Bird doesn't live with us anymore, having been adopted out during our last, long moving process.  She now lives with Our Lovely Lesbians, who discreetly call her Beebe.  She is the step mother of most of their full-size hens, having sat on their eggs collected from our country neighbors.  Beebe now also has a full-size boyfriend, although initially it seemed she was too bitchy for him: Her first dozen infertile eggs eventually started exploding under her.  This time around she has managed to hatch one of her own eggs --- a tiny gray chick (which we will inherit), and one of her step-daughter's --- a giant black chick.  Then she rejected five eggs and moved the remaining four to under the straw where she hangs out with the two chicks.  She was correct about the five eggs --- the proved infertile upon inspection, but her summer brooding method on the last four remains a mystery.


Since Beebe's track record has been poor as of late --- oh, hell, let's blame her boyfriend --- we purchased six chicks for our new home.  Six chicks usually guarantees around three hens (bantams are too small to be sexed as chicks), but it soon became obvious we had at least four budding roosters, including one that started out having calm bedroom eyes but morphed into a adolescent with a paralyzed leg.  He spent most of the day nestled in the lawn, his bum leg out to one side like an demented ballerina.  Otherwise he seemed content and healthy and was not harassed by the others, so the situation was sustainable.

The Chiclets --- in happier days.

While at our last property, Rancho Notorious, my husband built a portable A-frame hen house that can be rolled about --- providing security and a perennial patch of new ground for our hens.  A slight drawback to the design was that one end had to be lifted and two wheels installed in order to move it over the rough ground inherent to the ranch.  Now that we have lawn in exurbia, it's fairly easy just to push the hen house a short ways to a new spot.  This worked the first time --- the flock just bungled along as the frame pushed them, but the second time our one obvious hen got her foot caught.  She let out a plaintive cry as we jumped around, trying to lift the frame off her foot and feeling like complete shits for our laziness.  She hopped away on one foot, and Mr. Disabled immediately followed, sitting down next to her when she parked on the grass.  Aww.  She suffered no visual damage, but it's likely she'll be at least disadvantaged from now on.

Next morning, life in the hood wasn't so swell.  Her passive posture on the ground caused nascent sexual domineering among the pubescent boys --- something her new boyfriend could not defend her from, so we moved the new couple to a cat carrier.  Her attitude suggested this was the nadir of humiliation, but her boyfriend thought it was swell and crowed for the first time --- all the while maintaining a gallant manner towards her.

We had no intention of maintaining separate and unequal chicken housing.  My husband already had found out the local feed store takes in strays and unloved animals --- including roosters --- and finds them new homes.  We just had to wait until their current stock of roosters was adopted out --- an event that happened to coincide with our negligence.  So we scooped up the three obvious roosters, but what about her boyfriend --- and the Silver Seabright, who is slightly bigger than the rest and looks like a rooster, but was at least lowest in male hierarchy?  Upon removal of the three roosters, the Seabright looked startled, and then let out his first crow of triumph.  Okay, our lady has a new boyfriend.  If they get along, we may get slightly larger eggs and prettier hens.

Seabright (left) and Peg Leg

 They get along.  Perhaps Silver Seabright is less than gallant, keeping the choicest food offerings for himself, but he does spend a lot of time sitting next to her.  Peg Leg --- the unlovely name my husband has given her --- now has a trophy husband.