Chicken Run

I watched videos.  I read blogs.  I did my research and felt that I was ready.  I knew that I could sex baby chickens.  I just knew it.  I drove to my favorite hardware store in Wrens, Georgia and the owner helped point out the Americuana chicks in the pen stuffed with hundreds of balls of day-old fluff.  It was a straight run of mixed chickens but I was assured that the Americaunas were easy to identify.  I gently spread the wings and counted feathers and soon had a box of six female Americaunas.  After a month, I convinced myself that a couple of them were just bossy…the way females could be.  After two months, I compared the crests on the tops of the heads with pictures on the internet.  I figured they were just bigger chickens.  Healthier even.  After four months, one began to crow and it was hard to ignore this, even for me.  I could not have a crowing rooster in my back yard.  Roosters do not just crow in the morning.  Oh no, they crow all day long.  I did the research and fashioned a Velcro collar to stop this imposter chicken from crowing.  It worked but a week later, on the day the Englishman and I were to leave to tow a truck to Florida for the younger English boy, two more “chickens” began to crow.  I knew two things at once.  I could not sex chickens.  Half of my flock was male.  I also knew we needed to find a solution and quickly.  The Englishman called the older English boy for help and his wife’s grandmother agreed to take the roosters.  The Englishman was in charge of packing our vehicle and hitching the truck and my mother and I were in charge of catching roosters.  This was not as easy as it sounded and it didn’t help that my mother gave a play by play narrative on everything I was doing wrong.  I finally had three angry roosters and one hen in the crate.  “Fine,” I thought.  “They can have the hen, too”.  The crate went into the back of my mother’s minivan and we followed my husband to the interstate.  He pulled over at the rest stop a mile after entering the interstate to tell me he had left our luggage at the house.  The new plan was for him to wait at the rest stop while I dropped of the birds, returned to the house, picked up the luggage and then returned to the rest stop.  I thought that he had the easier task in his plan.  

Near the end of the summer, when the remaining two hens began to lay their first eggs, I realized that I had white eggs instead of blue and these were not Americauna chickens.  I wasn't sure what kind of chickens they were but they were laying eggs and I was happy.

Fast forward two years.  My flock of hens consisted of two Americaunas and one chicken unknown that I named Willow.  All three were cranky due to the winter and refused to lay eggs.  All through December and January, I had to buy eggs and continue to feed my egg-less chickens.  In February, The Englishman brought me six Red Star chickens he rescued from a commercial chicken farmer.  I knew that there would be a period for both new and existing chickens to establish the “pecking order” but it quickly became clear that Willow was the top chicken.  She bossed the new chickens around and kept them isolated in a corner away from the food.  She perched on the highest roost in the chicken house to lord over the others.  Finally, she held vigil at the door of the house from the inside, refusing entry to the new chickens until the automatic door closed and six chickens were locked out. I was at a loss.  I tried removing her for a few hours.  I tried letting her roam free while I worked in the vegetable beds.  I finally put her in with the ducks.  “They like her.  Let her live with them,“ I thought.  That was my solution for three days and then she learned how to crow.  Once again, the Englishman and I were able to reach out to the older English boy's grandmother-in-law and once again we were headed on the road with a chicken.  

First, I needed to catch her.  Easy, peasy.  She was perched on the roof of the duck house happily crowing at the top of her lungs.  I wrapped a tea towel around her and carried her to the Jeep.  The Englishman chose that moment to clean out the back of his SUV and required my assistance.  I looked at the chicken in my arms and he instructed me to put her in a large cardboard box.  “It won’t work,” I said.  “She’s smarter than us!”  In the box she went and seconds later she effortlessly flew out.  I had to catch her again.  A flying, cranky, crowing, angry chicken.  It took a while and the Englishman helped by offering useful tidbits on how to catch a chicken and critiqued my method from afar.  Finally, we were on the road, and I had a chicken sitting in my lap.  She looked out of the window at all the cars that we passed and the trip took thirty minutes longer than it should have because the Englishman refused to ask the exit number from his son.  We tried three before we got it right.  I had some observations from our road trip:  Chickens have tongues.  Chickens pant.  Chickens bite.  Chickens salivate and when chickens collect enough saliva and then violently shake their chicken head like a dog, drops of saliva are flung all over the car windows, the Englishman and me. 

After locating the correct driveway, the Englishman parked and did not help me by opening my door.  Instead he played with the Labrador that greeted him at his door.  I carried Willow, still in a tea towel, into the back yard and saw the most beautiful rooster.  His name was Buster and he was once my “chicken”.  His best friend was the Labrador and they rubbed up against each other in greeting.  Willow had a new home with a rooster she once knew and I hoped she would be happy ruling her new kingdom.