I had read that chickens take a day off now and then. Well, Hatsy didn’t. There were even a couple of days when she laid two eggs. After the first 147 days, Hatsy did take a break, for about twenty-four hours. Then she went right back to laying an egg a day.
It was kind of scary.
We hadn’t been able to figure out what type of chicken Hatsy was, even when her adult plumage came in. But it was her awesome egg production that solved the mystery of her breed. Hers is known as a “production breed.” Hatsy was a hybrid, designed for maximum efficiency. She was small and lean and was able to transform chicken feed into eggs at a dizzying pace. Hatsy’s breed is the one preferred by factory farms. No wonder she had grown so quickly as a chick. Chicks that are quick to mature and early to lay can bring greater profit to farmers.
This also explained why she ended up so small and scruffy. In comparison to the other ladies, Hatsy looked downright scraggly. She was spending all her resources to make all those eggs, with nothing left over for elegant plumage. Danny and Sarah and I thought Hatsy was beautiful nonetheless, and we were proud of her fruitfulness.
We especially adored Hatsy’s ragged bouquet of tail feathers.
A month later, Lucy and Lil’White began laying eggs too. Each girl’s eggs were unique looking—something I never expected.
Hatsy’s eggs were jumbo dark ovals. Lucy’s were a lovely pointed pink. Lil’White’s eggs were cute and perfect, just like she was, and she added white speckles to each one for decoration.
By the end of the summer, all three girls were laying full tilt. Our fridge brimmed with hard-boiled eggs, egg salad, and egg custard. We ate scrambled eggs for lunch, omelets for dinner, French toast for breakfast, and I baked cakes whether I wanted to or not.
Still, the eggs kept coming. I assembled six-packs as gifts for neighbors and friends, labeling each egg with the name of the hen who had laid it. I added a ribbon and a note to each carton. I wanted the recipients to appreciate these fresh homegrown eggs as the gifts that they were.
And they certainly did appreciate them.
And still the eggs kept coming. I bundled up a carton of eggs every time I left the house. I presented eggs to the librarian, the gas station guy, and complete strangers. I took pleasure in spreading the joy. I just hadn’t expected this much joy from only three hens.
The girls and I settled into a nice daily rhythm. In the mornings they stayed in the coop and laid their eggs, and in the afternoons I put them into the tractor for a change of scenery. They got used to our routine and met me at the doorway to the coop, eager to be picked up and transported to greener pastures. I carried them one by one to the tractor.
One day I left the chicken tractor door ajar—just a crack, for just a minute—and Marky slipped inside.
7
Marky Joins the Flock
I dived into the tractor right behind Marky, groping and flailing in a blur of feathers and fur and squawks and fangs, but I couldn’t catch him, so I shrieked. Deafening and furious.
And Marky stopped. Everything stopped. In the absolute silence that followed, a few downy feathers glided gently to the grass. I was crammed against the chicken wire inside the A-frame, hunched and shaking.
I glared at Marky.
His eyes glanced past me toward his escape route. In one fluid, desperate motion, he leapt over Hatsy, squeezed between my legs, and darted out the open doorway. He continued to run the length of our yard and stopped at the far corner. Glowing white in the deep shade of a tall pine, my little terrier guy turned to face me. He sat down.
I propped my shaking hands on my knees and looked around at the girls. I expected to see carnage, but there was no blood. Just some rumpled feathers and general chicken hysteria that settled pretty quickly.
I unsnagged my shirt from the chicken wire, backed out of the tractor, and latched the door behind me. The girls returned to their pecking and scratching business as if nothing had ever happened. What a resilient bunch.
I turned toward my dog.
Marky remained still. He was looking directly at me. And even from all the way across the yard, I could see that Marky understood. These chickens were mine, not his.
Marky was here long before the chickens. He’d been a member of our family for six years.
Danny and I had felt secure and happy with our decision to have a small family, but he and I had both grown up with siblings and dogs and chaos, and I thought it was important to throw a little wrench into the comfortably predictable lifestyle of our only child. When Sarah was about six years old, I felt that the time was right to add a family member in the form of a puppy. I wanted Sarah to experience the joy and companionship that I had enjoyed with my dogs, and I thought that there ought to be somebody around to occasionally gnaw the heads off her dolls.
For several weeks, I monitored local shelters on the Internet, waiting for our dream puppy to appear. When Marky’s litter was dropped at a nearby shelter and I saw the photos online, I threw a laundry basket and a towel in the car and drove right over to take a look.
Oh, they were tiny. Eight weeks old. Part schnauzer, part Eskimo, they were a terrier mix. I asked the shelter lady if I could hold one. She opened the cage, picked up a male by his scruff, and handed him to me. And that was it. I had found Marky.
I didn’t need the laundry basket and towel after all. He was so tiny and so quiet that I just zipped him up in my coat and there he stayed.
Back home with our new puppy, Sarah and Danny and I were ecstatic. Marky was adorable, and those first few days with him were heavenly sweet.
Then things started to heat up.
Marky turned out to be a take-charge kind of puppy. He stared me down. He bit every one of us, and not in a sweet puppy-chewing way but with the vicious intention of ripping our flesh.
We assumed this was just a phase. I barricaded him in the kitchen, as many people do with their puppies to keep them safe, although I was kind of doing it for our own safety. In his kitchen playland, Marky bypassed his squeaky toys in favor of the linoleum floor, prying it up with tiny fangs and peeling it off in sheets. Instead of gnawing his doggie treats, he carved the wooden legs of our kitchen chairs with the skill of a beaver.
Sarah took to crossing the kitchen by standing on one chair, then scooting another chair around and stepping onto it, then sliding the last chair around and so forth, eventually arriving at her destination without ever touching the floor, while Marky circled ominously below, snarling and spitting.
This was a little discouraging. I wanted my girl to adore her puppy, but Sarah’s love for Marky was fading with every attack. My plan had gone wrong, and it was getting more horribly wrong by the day.
Concerned for our safety and for the safety of all who might come into contact with this tiny demon, I signed up for the first Puppy Preschool class I could find.
On our first night of class, people and pets mingled sweetly. I joined the circle and removed Marky’s leash as instructed so that he could participate in joyful puppy play. Marky trotted into the fray, cute as a button. The first puppy he met was a poodle, and he greeted her with open jaws. She broke free and ran crying back to the lap of her human.
Marky went for the next puppy, and then the next. One by one, wounded, cowering puppies left the circle. I frantically pried Marky off his victims and shot apologies to their shocked owners.
Thank goodness our trainer was a take-charge type as well. She had been watching Marky, and she had a hunch. She picked him up and took a look at his teeth. Then she informed me that Marky was in fact not eight weeks old when he was dumped at the shelter; he was probably closer to five weeks. This is a significant issue because, she said, during weeks six, seven, and eight, the mother dog teaches her puppies how to socialize. It’s during this period that, when a puppy nips mama’s ear, she gives him a firm body slam. Dog mothers teach their pups clearly and quickly.
From that point forth, our trainer watched Marky with an eagle eye. When he launched himself
at Daisy, an unwitting basset hound pup, our trainer hovered above, waiting for the precise moment when fangs met flesh. Then she snatched Marky’s scruff, hoisted him above her head, and yelled at him.
For several days after that, Marky displayed perfect manners and total sweetness. My confidence in Marky grew as we attended class every week and practiced our homework. Marky and I became star students. As soon as Puppy Preschool ended, I signed up for Obedience School, and as soon as that ended, I signed up again. We worked on our commands every day, and after a good year or so of hard work, we had ourselves an awesome, trusting relationship.
Friends and family were amazed at Marky’s transformation. Once unpredictable and downright scary, he had become mellow, well-rounded, and polite.
Marky and Sarah built themselves a nice relationship, too, complete with all the sweetness and the challenges I had hoped for.
Still shaking after our near disaster in the chicken tractor, I realized that this incident was my fault. The day he first met the chicks, I had decided that Marky was incapable of controlling his behavior. I had written him off completely as far as any chicken interactions were concerned. I didn’t think he’d ever be able to change, so I didn’t even try. Or maybe I didn’t know how to start.
This day was the start. Marky was beside himself. Still under the tree, still watching me. I seized the opportunity.
We always begin with food. Treats and high voice and praise are the best tools. To help Marky understand his new role, I pulled a handful of chicken feed out of my pocket and offered him the first bite. Then I fed the ladies.
With this gesture, I assured Marky that he was the top dog, that he was the leader of my pack of chickens. He swallowed another handful of chicken feed for good measure, just to show the chickens that he pulled rank. Of course Marky’s new leadership position meant nothing to the girls, but that didn’t matter. Marky knew where he stood, and he was proud of his new job.
For a few weeks, Marky and I worked together on a short leash while the chickens free-ranged among us. We connected again, Marky and I, and our trust returned.
Marky took care to avert his eyes while he was among the girls, so as not to be incited by those eyeballs of theirs. A few years back, when we had our pet guinea pigs, Marky had displayed this same behavior as he attempted to maintain self-control.
Timmy and Cobbie looked so tasty, and their eyes glistened like shiny black buttons, never blinking. To a dog, unblinking eye contact can be perceived as aggression. So Marky found that the best way to control his instincts in the presence of these creatures was to keep from ever looking at them. I was impressed with his self-control then, and now I could see that Marky was employing this same tactic with the chickens. What a good boy.
We began to work off leash among the ladies. The girls showed a bit of residual anxiety around Marky, but they eventually came to understand that he was probably not going to eat them. Still, they kept a safe distance and kept an eye on him at all times. They watched his stance.
If Marky was just milling about the yard, then the girls relaxed, too.
If he pricked his ears and trotted purposefully into the woods, Lucy and Hatsy expressed caution and stood tall to try to see what vicious predator had caught Marky’s attention in the shadows. Lil’White, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about danger. She was becoming quite the carefree chicken.
While Hatsy and Lucy did their free-ranging side by side, Lil’White wandered directly into the darkest depths of the forest, scratching and pecking on the fringe without a worry. Every now and then I rounded her up from the woods and returned her to the flock on the lawn, only to watch her saunter casually away again. Fortunately, Marky was vigilant. Foxes kept their distance, and Lil’White survived to see another devil-may-care day.
All the girls came to understand not only Marky’s body language but also his vocalizations. To most of our ears, a dog bark is a dog bark. But the girls recognized the nuances of his voice. They paid little heed to Marky’s “FedEx” and “mailman” bark, but they ran for the safety of the thicket at the sound of his “neighborhood dog coming for a visit” bark or “fox in the woods” bark.
Taking his new guard dog job very seriously, Marky set up a special morning routine. First, he strode out into the backyard, sniffed the breeze, and barked in the general direction of the woods,
just to let predators know that he was on duty. Then he patrolled the perimeter, peeing on choice trees and rocks at the edge of the yard.
When the girls free-ranged, Marky followed them from a comfortable distance while they meandered across the lawn. The girls occasionally dropped feathers on the ground, and Marky found them to be a delicious snack. A gift from the girls, just for Marky.
While the ladies and I were gardening one morning, the little white guy noticed that Lucy had a feather dangling from her wing, and he recognized it as a treat.
I diverted him with a command of “Leave it!” just before he plucked the feather, and just before Lucy would have plucked his eyeball in return. The girls were very tolerant of Marky, but they did have their limits.
Marky had his limits too. One day he was dozing among the lilies when a June bug landed on his tail. Marky didn’t wake, but Hatsy sprang to action. She made a beeline for that shiny orange tidbit. A command of “Leave it!” wouldn’t have stopped Hatsy, so I trampled the perennials to reach her just before she was to deliver the swift peck to Marky’s tail that would have ensured her certain and untimely death.
While Lucy and Lil’White were cautious enough to stay away from Marky’s things, Hatsy often felt the need to perform an up-close investigation.
And when I brought Marky his dinner bowl, Hatsy just assumed that the dog food was available on a first come, first served basis.
Marky disagreed. But his aggression never went beyond a growl, and that was sufficient to send Hatsy skittering away.
8
Chickenspeak
As I spent every free moment hanging out with the girls, I began to recognize their unique voices.
Hatsy was a sociable gal, and her voice was a classic clucking.
The way Lucy spoke reminded me of my grandma Alma. Grandma never had much to say, but she responded pleasantly to anything I would tell her. She’d offer a polite “Oooh?” or “Hmm” in order to keep the conversation going without adding much content.
Lucy even asked questions.
“Yes, Lucy,” I replied.
“Brrrhrrr,” Lucy said with a sigh.
Lil’White never spoke at all. No clucks, no chutters or exclamations.
But she sure could let out a good burp: a high-pitched ladylike belch that lifted her right off her pretty little feet.
I began to understand the meanings behind some of the ladies’ vocalizations, especially the important sounds that warn of predators. When a hawk flew over, the first girl to spot it sounded the alarm with a high-pitched trill. Immediately, all heads rose and all motion stopped. They watched the sky and waited like little chicken statues until the hawk passed.
Hatsy tended to trill a lot of false alarms. But with experience, all three girls came to recognize hawks and to distinguish these very real dangers from sparrows, helicopters, and butterflies.
Marky had never really paid much attention to any of the raptors or buzzards that circle overhead, and he didn’t notice the girls’ concern. To teach him that hawks are unwanted, I launched myself into an animated tizzy whenever I spotted one, pointing toward the sky and getting Marky all worked up. He quickly caught my drift, barked at the hawk, got a biscuit. Good boy.
Chickens have a different warning sound for earthbound predators. This sound is more like a growl than a trill, and is reserved for foxes, raccoons, and other fearsome creatures. My girls also have a specific “Look out, here comes Marky” expression that sounds like a subtle “oh-oh.” Kind of like when kids spy the neighborhood troublemaker coming to join their game.
When a neighbor dog, Brody, wandered in
to our yard to play with Marky, I watched from the kitchen window to see what my guy would do. The chickens were safe in the coop, so I didn’t have to worry about them. In the past, Marky would have invited Brody to play, and they’d have run laps across the lawn and ripped through the flower beds. This time, Marky barked and grumbled at Brody and physically blocked the entrance to our yard. Brody, disappointed and confused, turned and trotted home. I summoned Marky to the back door, and he came right over to receive his biscuit prize.
Of course, I later took Marky to Brody’s house for a good playful romp on Brody’s own turf.
A few days after the Brody event, I watched again from the window as Marky dashed barkingly toward the driveway. He had heard a loud rustling in the dried leaves in the forest and he voiced his most urgent warning, prepared to confront whatever monster might emerge. When an enormous tom turkey strutted out before him, Marky stopped and took a good look at it. They faced each other, and from the window I could see the cranks and pistons churning and chugging inside Marky’s head. After a long pause he arrived at his conclusion.
Once Upon a Flock Page 3