The Natural Lives of Chicken

"Ebony" One of the original girls.

We lost May this week. May was one of our original bunch of chicks. Hatched in March 2004, May arrived with the rest of our first flock. We ordered 25 chicks, but unlike anything else in this world, hatcheries give you more than you order. This is to give roosters a home. See, you order 25, but then they throw in a couple "extra", to fill up the box and keep all the chicks "warm". Then, they mail a box of little peepers, and the mailman calls you at like, 5 am and tells you your package has arrived- like he can't tell what it is, you can hear the little frantic peeps over the phone. So, you bundle up the kids and drive to the post office. You then remove your coat to cover the little box of peeps, because it is dawn, in March, and ergo: it is cold. The little babies are supposed to be kept at a consistent 95 degrees. Nothing in your life approaches 95 degrees, not even body temperature ( I run a steady 92 all winter- I am cold.) You also have to protect the fascinating chicks from the cat, drafts and drowning. Keep in mind, that like all babies, their main function for the next few months will be eating, sleeping and pooping. So, you fix up a heat lamp over a baby pool in the only room in the house that has a door- the bathroom. There, you keep them at the ambient 95, showing each baby how to eat and drink, on a bed of shavings covered with newspaper, so their little legs don't splay, and they don't eat the shavings instead of the chick feed causing starvation. Each week you can take them down 5 degrees. Now, if you do the math, from 95 to, let's say, 60 is 7 weeks. That about coincides with late spring here in the valley. That means for at least 7 weeks (barring late spring cold spells) you will have chickens in your bathroom. They are cute. Really cute. For about 2 of the weeks. Then they just smell bad. They start to fly out of the pool, and poop all over the bathroom. They flap their little wings and send shavings all over the floor for you to step on after you get out of the shower. You erect taller walls to keep them in the pool. You contemplate introducing them to the cat.

Then, the joyous day they move to the barn to begin a life independent from the area you keep your toothbrush.

This is how May started her life. She and her little mates were very tame by the time they left the bathroom. She was a Barred Rock Hen, and the sister of June and April, all Barred Rocks.

Our first group of hens was much coddled, and each had their own personality. Flo was my favorite. A top hatted Houdan hen, she had a crop of feathers coming off the top of her head that made eyesight impossible. Her little beak was crossed, and I had to file it down every few weeks so she could eat. She would often get lost, and start calling out. If you called her "Flo! Over here!" She would make her way to you, and contentedly start to cluck, no longer lost.

Early the next spring, before the hens were even a year old, something caught my eye that made my heart stop. A  large female pit bull was in the front yard. I raced out there and made tentative friends with her in order to catch her and make sure the chickens were safe. With a large chain used to close off the driveway, I padlocked her to a post and went to find the girls. I was soon hysterically running around trying to find any chicken left alive. Everywhere I went, there were feathers and bodies of my little friends. The dog had just gone from one to another, killing and moving on. Panicked I dashed around the farm yard, and farther, calling their names. The dog thought I was inviting her to join in the hunt, and easily popped the post right out of the ground, dragging it behind her with the chain. Now, sobbing and holding a post with a chain and a pit bull on the end, I struggled to the house to call a neighbor. The poor farmer quickly identified hysterical female voice and handed me off to his grown daughter. She deciphered my fractured words, and they came to help. Pit bull removed, I continued searching for chickens, dreading the bus arriving and depositing my chicken loving children.

We lost more than half of the flock that day. I never saw Flo again, never found her body. But May I plucked out from between two straw bales where she had wedged herself to attempt escape from assault. She had lost all her feathers on her back and rump, along with skin in places. The most gravely hurt of the survivors, I put her in Chicken ICU- back to the bathroom. Her sisters, April and June were both found far from the barn, up against the neighbor's wire fence where they could no longer flee. May lived. Her comb a bit mangled, and naked from the neck back. For several years, she looked like a naked red chicken. Then, one spring, magically, she sprouted feathers again, becoming a large, healthy bird.

I moved her into Chicken ICU again this weekend, after finding her in good spirits, but immobile, with legs that didn't seem to want to work. My middle child and I got her a deep bed of straw and placed water and food at her breast. I expressed her bladder for her a few times a day, and she continued to be alert and cheerful, chirping happily for me, and eating whatever treats I gleaned from our plates. I didn't have much hope,  and she died overnight.

I have been asked "How long do chickens live?" In most of the world, about a year and a half, because that is when they stop laying eggs regularly, but are still okay eating. At Cowfeathers, having not yet mastered the art of slaughtering, our animals die for other reasons. My mother has had some birds that live a long time, 10 years or so, but I think 6 is about the time when a chicken is old. Earlier this year we lost Lace, also of the original girls, in a similar "stuff isn't working so well anymore" fashion. So, now I watch Sapphire and Ebony, Imelda and Junior and the remaining old guard carefully. All look about the same, a bit older,  but still sassy and still putting themselves to bed on the same spot on their perches every night. There are empty spots where Lace and May once curled up for the night. No doubt, those spaces will eventually be filled by one of the newer girls, fulfilling the natural life of a chicken.