Life is still good for Miss Chicken
A few days before Christmas five years ago, I arrived home to find standing in my driveway a young chicken, feathers all shiny black and feet bright yellow. We never did learn how she got there or where she came from, but there she was.
Since that time, this odd bird has been a delight in my life, and I have often written about her antics and lessons learned from life in the chicken coop. I do so again today because it is something of an anniversary for Miss Chicken and me – and because I am so often asked for updates on her life.
Miss Chicken is middle-aged now and still looking good. Once arrogant, stand-offish and sometimes hostile, she now only launches an occasional peck, no longer the attacks that left bruises on the hand. Still not terribly fond of being carried, she’ll put up with it for short periods of time. And catching her is no longer the strategic triangulation it used to be; it just takes a little subtle maneuvering. When I visited last week to take her Christmas picture, usually an ordeal involving lots of flapping and escaping, she only flew off the fence once. Our gal has mellowed.
As do most of us, she prospers with a familiar and comfortable routine. She will wake up this Christmas morning, as she wakes up each morning, just before dawn when Joan Nolan carries in two buckets of fresh water to the chicken house to fill the water pans and puts seed into the hoppers. And there will be a special chicken-appropriate gift this Christmas Day in the form of fresh cut greens with the morning feed. The lights will be turned on and Miss C and her roost mates will begin moving around, some hopping off the roost right away and others, just like some of us in the morning, lingering a while longer before rising to stretch their legs.
The door to their outside yard will be opened, but they will remain inside eating and drinking, and some of the girls will hop into a nest box to get busy with the task of egg production. That’s when the singing begins, everyone vocalizing in individual melodious ways that Joan describes as sweet and comforting. If Miss Maggie, one of Miss C’s daughters, jumps up on one of the feeders, it means she wants to be held, so Joan will gently pick her up and carry her around as she completes the day’s chores.
With the arrival of the morning sun, the flock of 15 will venture outside for some exercise. And if the weather is good, they’ll get to free-range in the outer yard for several hours.
I was never able to touch Miss C as I put out feed for her during the year she was with me, moving between my and my neighbor’s unfenced yards (or pretty much anyplace she wanted to park herself in the neighborhood). So I am glad to see her get comfortable, finally, with a human or two. After that first year avoiding cold, snow, coyotes and cats, we were concerned she would not make it through another winter unprotected, so my husband set up a trap and pre-baited it for a week until we were able to successfully capture her. We then relocated her to Joan’s home for wayward, retired and endangered chickens in Spokane Valley, where I have visitation rights.
Life in the chicken yard has gone well this year, though there were some losses. RB, the lone rooster in the group, died, as did Rosie, Miss Daisy (one of Miss C’s babies from her first little family) and 9-year-old Oprah.
And there were two additions. When Woody Two and Mama Two were setting this summer, Joan gave Woody Two some fertilized eggs to set on. An interesting thing took place when two babies were born. Mama chickens don’t usually allow other hens to act as aunties, but Woody Two did permit Mama Two to assume that role when the two banty Japanese grays, named Tokyo and Toshio (both boys), were born in August.
I’ve learned from Joan that males raised together don’t usually fight, so she expects peace will prevail as the boys grow up. They are starting to try to crow now. “They’ve got attitude,” Joan said. “Their tails go straight up, and they are proud little birds. But, oh my, they do make the most raspy throat-clearing sounds when they try to vocalize. No melody at all.”
Before dusk the flock will be bribed back inside with some cracked corn. It will be lights out at 7 p.m., at which time Joan will take a small flashlight and, working in the near dark, make sure the birds are all snugged up on the roost for warmth. And she’ll do a final beak count to be sure everyone is tucked away safe and sound for another night.
It’s a quiet life; it’s a good life. Miss Chicken is loved and cared for this Christmas Day and every day.
Who could want for more?