I BEGAN laying later than most. The other pullets were stepping out of the nest box clucking, tweeting egg pics, preening smugly like they knew they were real hens now, while I just waited. I waited for that feeling you are supposed to get, the deep soul urge that sends you looking for a bit of straw in which to leave your indent.
Finally, after fall had turned to winter, the urge came. I needed the quiet of the nest box and the undulations of my oviduct as I needed feed and water. There is no greater satisfaction than laying an egg. In my early laying days I would set proudly atop my creation for a good hour after it emerged, enjoying the round certitude under my breast feathers. Sometimes I clucked. Mostly my celebrations were quiet, private.
Now I am five years old, an age of which factory farm birds can scarcely dream. I still lay four eggs a week, in season. Many humans say hens stop laying after a year or two. Let them say so. My work speaks for itself.
In my chickhood I fretted about why I had cheek feathers while other birds had none. But once I was a grown hen I knew that what set me apart made me beautiful, and I embraced the tufts in my peripheral field. I wondered if there were other chickens out in the vast world who had also cheek feathers, and whether they might be kin to me.
My flockmates back when were Betsy, a sensible White Rock, and Marianne, a charming but unreliable Cuckoo Maran. I was content in the middle of the pecking order, between them. For three years we lived and laid contentedly. Treats were plentiful and sun sliced into the run. Evenings we wandered the backyard and found clever ways to peck the juicy kale leaves not meant for us. Comes Bearing Treats loved us even when we made stalk skeletons of the kale. I knew I was her favorite.
As the days lengthened toward spring, I did not know that my life was about to change. Then one fateful night shattered my peace.
IT IS difficult for me to recall or recount the events of that night. It is still too painful to tell in detail, but I will say what I can. A possum muscled its way through a rusted hole in the coop wire and made to kill us all. I screeched and fought while the monster tore a gash in my side. Feathers flew and my flockmates were stunned by terror, but I kept squawking the alarm. CBT came flying out into the dark yard to answer my cries. She fought off the beast and I was spared. Betsy and Marianne were not so lucky. Both lay dead.
What followed was a dark and lonely time. I was wounded. CBT was too. I had no flock and no home--the coop was too dangerous. I lived those first few days in a box next to CBT's roost. (Humans roost by lying flat on what looks like a funny pile of straw.) I could not squawk nor cluck nor lay.
I learned a lot in that time. It is hard to be a hen without a flock, but I managed. I wandered the yard, haunted by memories, and occupied my troubled mind finding sneaky hidden nest spots. I learned meditation from the feline Buddhist nun, and I learned my own fortitude.
The days grew long and my wound healed. I began to lay again. One day in May I heard peeping from the human coop. I knew what it meant. I had little urge to hassle these new birds. I pecked them, but it was mere formality. They were to be my flock. I understood. When I was young, I attacked and rejected, but all that seemed pulletish now.
My new flockmates were a sweetheart Rhode Island Red named Hennessy, a well-built and hard-working Barred Rock named Lucretia, and a surly Wyandotte named Mrs. Darcy. They respected me, and in due time I earned top of the pecking order by my soft power. They looked to me to learn where the best dusting spots were, in patches of sunshine.
Life once again took on the comfortable rhythms of laying and pecking, scratching and molting. CBT brought us soft, wormlike spaghetti, tortilla chips soaked in warm water, chard leaves stenciled by delicious leaf miners, and countless other delicacies. Aptly did we name her, for she does come bearing treats.
LATER THAT year another bird joined us, or tried. Bettina was a bantam White Leghorn, a refugee from a flock that had persecuted her. She was tiny, innocent. Given a chance, my flockmates would peck her murderously. They were four times her size and could have killed her, so she had to live apart. Hennessy, who ranked lowest, and had her own bottom pecked bare by the others, was meanest to Bettina.
She was a bantam and an optimist, and Bettina made the most of wandering the yard while we stayed in our run. She preened when we preened, clucked when we clucked, but she was always on the other side of the wire. I alone could be trusted with Bettina. I sat peaceably beside her amid the calla lilies and her gratitude was palpable. I sometimes wonder if those who can be cruel have never suffered earnestly themselves; else how could they so blithely inflict suffering on others? Age has softened me, I suppose. The feline Buddhist nun taught me, Don't have expectations for others. Just be kind.
Despite the rather hard conditions of her life, we all envied Bettina, because Ceebee loved her so. On rainy days Bettina got drenched trying to stay near to us, so CBT let her dry her feathers and preen in the human coop. I did not let jealousy overtake me at such moments. I knew Bettina had a hard lot in life. She looked at least as old as me, but was skittish like a pullet. Her anxious habits made me know she had never quite lived in ease: a hen's soul cannot be content without her own true flock. Ceebee wanted to change that. She told me her plans for two new coops, one for us big hens and another for Bettina and two future banty companions. We dreamed and planned.
THIS YEAR another spring came--they always do--and brought with it a new home beside the fig tree, and fresh sounds of peeping. I adore my new nest box. It's marvelously spacious. I do sometimes miss the funky old coop, but the new one is snug and secure. And the peeping sounds brought me joy: they promised Bettina would have her own flock.
As a wise old hen I can tell you that sometimes you plan to make life better, but it gets worse instead. You may dig your darnedest to find a worm, only to have Lucretia snatch it from your beak. As the tiny banty chicks grew stronger, sweet Bettina grew weaker. She laid shelless eggs and sat listless by the calla lilies.
CBT did not know how to help her. Before the new birds were old enough to meet her, Bettina quietly died, alone in her new red coop. I watched Ceebee bury Bettina. I sensed her heavy heart, heard her quavery Kaddish, and knew I would be mourned so myself.THERE WERE new babies to raise, so I reminded Ceebee of what she has often told me: Birds may die, but the flock carries on.
The young banties are plucky, but gentle. I stare in amusement at Mrs. Patmore, the blue Silkie, who is hardly a chicken, more just a ball of plush feathers. Her flockmate Daisy has something of the spirit of Bettina, and looks a bit like her, with a tiny frame and part white feathers. But she's feistier than that innocent banty Leghorn ever was. I wish Bettina could have lived happily among them. Some good things are not meant to be, I suppose.
There's something about Daisy. I can't put a claw on it. I relate to her somehow. Once, when Daisy was still a chick, Ceebee held us both together. She held the baby bird against my breast feathers, the tiny beak pointed at mine. I pretended to take no notice, which, in chicken body language, is a gesture of great kindness. Daisy gazed up at me and I felt my hen heart stir.
But I'm a foolish old bird. How could I not have seen it? I know what it is about Daisy. She's got feathers on her cheeks.
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