Once Upon a Flock

by Lauren Scheuer

  Lucy wore herself out with her rigorous home-schooling agenda. After a good half hour of lessons, she returned with the baby to the broody coop and pretty much passed out.

  Chickie waited patiently while Lucy took her nap, and then they were off and running again.

  Out on their forays, even while I was watching over the pair, Lucy was extremely vigilant. She knew that Chickie was the easiest of targets and a tasty treat for any predator.

  Chickie needed no explanation of her mother’s hawk warnings. at Lucy’s first trill, Chickie dived for cover.

  For additional protection, Chickie had some camouflage tricks of her own—she happened to do a great impression of a dead leaf.

  Find Chickie in this picture:

  I swear Chickie is in this picture too:

  To provide her chick with a well-rounded education, Lucy traveled with her each day to more distant and exotic places, like the front yard. There, she taught her little one to climb stairs

  in order to beg for treats at the front door.

  Back in their broody cage in the afternoon,

  Lucy watched over Chickie from the comfort of her storage bin. Lucy was strict about bedtime. She required that they turn in way before dusk.

  Some evenings, Chickie was just not into that.

  Some days, Chickie was just not into walking, either.

  Lucy was a good sport about it.

  It took Chickie only a week or two to grow strong and smart enough to be able to live safely in Lucy’s coop.

  Chickie had great fun climbing up the ramp and jumping off the ledge.

  Lucy kept on feeding grubs and bugs to Chickie as fast as she could, and Chickie grew very quickly. Her comb and tail feathers grew quickly also. Way too quickly.

  My heart sank.

  Chickie was a boy.

  17

  Lucy Returns

  When I accepted those eggs from Patricia, I accepted the risk that we might hatch a boy. But at the time, I was caught up in Lucy’s broody adventure and didn’t want to think any unpleasant thoughts. Now I had a rooster again and I would have to find a home for him. But he was still a chick; he wouldn’t be crowing for a while. In time we’d have to send him packing, but for now there was plenty of adventure still to enjoy. And besides, Lucy adored the little fella. Her enthusiasm in raising that chick completely offset the pain in her legs and the weakness that her illness had caused. I would keep Chickie for Lucy for as long as I could.

  I expected him to be a little more independent by the time he was five or six weeks old, but he remained quite the mama’s boy. Lucy was still feeding him, forgoing her own nutritional needs, and all that exhausting child-rearing activity was taking an evident toll. As Chickie grew, Lucy shrank. She got skinnier and skinnier, and if that wasn’t bad enough, she molted.

  All birds molt. It’s a natural occurrence. Feathers are astoundingly durable, but they do require replacement from time to time. All chickens have their own molting style. Some drop a feather here and there, and it’s hardly noticeable. Other hens opt for the speed molt. One day they look voluptuous, and the next day the coop looks like a chicken exploded, feathers absolutely everywhere, and a nearly naked hen cowering in the corner.

  Lil’White tends to fancy the explosion method.

  But since she seems already to have twice the number of feathers she ought to have, she looks just as pretty the day after the molt as she did the day before.

  This molt of Lucy’s left her looking pretty scraggly. Her tail feathers were gone, and about half of all the other feathers as well. During a molt, the hen stops laying eggs and spends all her energy creating new feathers. Lucy hadn’t resumed laying anyway, so that was fine. But as she was so worn-out from mothering, this molt was especially taxing on her health and energy.

  Chickie stayed right by Lucy’s side, keeping his mom company while she sat around looking miserable.

  When Lucy found the energy to get up and move about, Chickie was right there, in order that his exhausted mother might cater to his every need.

  Lucy was very tolerant of Chickie’s separation issues. As her little man grew, the pair looked sillier and sillier: this gangly teenage boy still clinging to his mommy.

  Weeks passed,

  and Chickie did become more independent. And more gorgeous. He was so handsome that Lil’White took a real liking to him.

  Hatsy still had no tolerance for the guy.

  But the little whippersnapper could run faster than Hatsy could, so life was good. The whole flock was back free-ranging together again.

  By now, Chickie had completely outgrown his name. I didn’t want to give him a real chicken name because I felt that naming him would endear him to us just that much more and we’d have a more difficult time giving him up when the time came. But we had to call our rooster man something, so Roosterman he became.

  Now that her boy was an elegant and independent rooster, Lucy found freedom to rest and recover. All of her feathers grew back, and her strength came back too.

  In fact, she looked magnificent—prettier and stronger than she ever had looked.

  And now that Roosterman was looking more like a chicken than a squeaky toy, Marky had no trouble recognizing him as one of the flock. So Marky was allowed to run free with the flock once again, and he dutifully resumed his chicken-watching post.

  Roosterman learned right away that the white furry guy had a set of sharp fangs and that it was best to keep confrontations to a minimum.

  On nice mornings, I propped open the doors to both coops, Marky stood watch over the flock, and I did my artwork at the kitchen table so that I could keep an eye on things through the window. Glancing out at the coop one day, I was stunned to see Lucy inside the big coop, ambling down the ramp and out onto the lawn. Lil’White stood right outside the door, and she sauntered amicably over to Lucy to graze beside her.

  I blinked. Lil’White and Lucy were now friends? After all of Lil’White’s hateful bludgeoning and vicious attacks? All of a sudden Lil’White had no problem at all with Lucy’s walking in and out of the big coop, and Lucy had no fear of Lil’White. I felt as though I must have skipped a chapter. And on top of all that, Lucy managed to climb all the way up and back down that long ramp on her sore legs.

  Moments later, Hatsy climbed out of a divot and joined her two friends. I watched the three hens pecking and scratching together in blissful harmony, and I was completely puzzled.

  A short while after that, when I went out to collect eggs, I discovered one more surprise: Lucy had laid an egg in the big coop. Now I understood. This egg was Lucy’s statement, her formal triumphant announcement that she had made a comeback.

  That evening when the flock marched back home to roost, Lucy bypassed her own doorway and followed Hatsy and Lil’White into the big coop. She stumbled courageously up the ramp and joined Hatsy inside on the high roost. Lil’White accepted Lucy’s roosting choice without demur and settled herself onto the lower roost, alone.

  I was absolutely elated at all that I had witnessed. I cupped my hands against the henhouse window and peered inside. There she was. Lucy, my phoenix, had returned.

  Meanwhile, Roosterman stood alone and confused between the two coops. He didn’t know which way to turn or in which coop to sleep. I picked him up and tucked him in beside Lil’White on the lower roost. The clucking I heard as I locked things up assured me that there was peace in the henhouse.

  18

  Roosterman

  The next morning I found piles of feathers all over the coop floor. They were rooster feathers, and this was no molt. This was Hatsy trying to pluck poor Roosterman naked. He could outrun her on the lawn, but locked up in the coop, the guy didn’t stand a chance. I found him in the henhouse, cowering on a roost. Several of his impressive tail feathers were broken off and his ego was pretty badly damaged. I carried him outside past the glaring Hatsy and set him free on the grass.

  Then Marky and I took a stroll through the woods in search of a spec
ial perch for our henpecked roo. We returned with a nice thick oak branch. I sanded it smooth and installed it high up in the coop, too high for Hatsy to jump. When the flock returned home that afternoon, our agile young man flapped up to the safety of his new roost, leaving Hatsy steaming and pacing below.

  By now Roosterman was far bigger than his father had been, and he still had more growing to do. Lucy and Lil’White were impressed with his fine manly manners. When he discovered bugs and beetles in the lawn, he announced them with a tut-tut-tut-tut, tidbitting just like his mother had. He always proffered the best of his finds to the ladies. While they partook of his offerings, Roosterman circled them with a happy dance.

  This is the way of the rooster. It’s a courting behavior. Chivalrous and brave in the traditional rooster fashion, Roosterman stood tall and kept a keen eye out for danger, watching over the ladies while they grazed. He was as dedicated a protector as Marky was.

  This proved to be a problem. Marky tolerated Roosterman just fine, but Roosterman had issues with Marky. I don’t know whether our young rooster saw the dog as a rival or as a chicken predator, but he made it a point to torment poor Marky often and relentlessly.

  He charged him.

  He danced circles around him.

  Marky displayed the patience of a saint.

  But then Roosterman started playing dirty.

  The first time our feathered fella launched an attack from the rear, Marky came running to me—confused, unnerved, humiliated. This was just plain not fair. What was Marky supposed to do? He was under strict orders to leave the chickens alone. But what about self-defense?

  I didn’t know how to solve this problem. So I told Marky he was a good boy and then locked Roosterman in Lucy’s little coop for the rest of the day.

  The next day Roosterman attacked Marky with the same strategy. This turned out to be a big mistake. Marky swirled around and caught his tormentor in midair and nailed him to the ground.

  He would have sunk his fangs into Roosterman but he couldn’t get a toothhold in the jumble of twitching feathers.

  Lucky for Roosterman, I was nearby. I gently removed the dog from the great mound of rooster. Marky lowered his head and looked up at me sheepishly. He looked terribly sorry. I gave him a pat and a smile. “Good boy.”

  Roosterman, unscathed, hopped up and retreated. After a few shakes and preens, he resumed his proud strutting like nothing had happened. I fetched one of my handy-dandy chicken cages and threw it over him.

  And from that moment, he was never a free man again.

  I thought he would be devastated by his incarceration, but it didn’t really cramp his style. From the cage, Roosterman still watched over his flock.

  And from the cage he managed to summon his hens and keep them close. He tidbitted. He danced. I think the girls liked him even more now that he was locked up and couldn’t inflict so much of his virile manliness on them. In the evenings, I allowed him to join the ladies in the coop, so he was a happy guy still.

  Roosterman turned out to be a late crower. For the first few quiet months, I was in blissful denial about the inevitability of his mature voice. Who knew? Maybe this rooster would be mute. It could happen, right?

  When Roosterman did eventually find his voice, it sounded more like a clearing of the throat than a cock-a-doodle-doo.

  Certainly not unpleasant, and hardly louder than a whisper. Thank goodness Roosterman was going to be a soft-spoken fella, and I would be able to suspend my hunt for his new home. I was elated, especially because I hadn’t yet begun the search. But Roosterman had only just begun to crow. It took a couple more weeks of practice for his voice to blossom into an ear-splitting off-key fingernails-on-a-chalkboard screech.

  To stand near him when he belted out his song was utter agony. To those who lived a good block or two down the road, I guess it was tolerable, because when I went door-to-door apologizing for the noise, our neighbors were very kind and understanding. I promised them that Roosterman would be moving to a new home soon. The neighbors made it pretty clear that they looked forward to that peaceful day.

  I began searching for a home for him—craigslist, Freecycle, chicken websites, Yahoo! groups, Facebook, flyers.

  I expected the search to be tough. And it was.

  As autumn neared, Roosterman started waking earlier and earlier, and he felt it necessary to inform the entire world. As I recall, his 4:00 a.m. announcements were the most agonizing.

  Danny loved Roosterman as much as the rest of us, but he was losing patience, and losing precious sleep. Roosterman must go, sooner rather than later. Sarah once again required that this rooster find a safe and happy home, not a stewpot, and I assured her that he would. But I was stumped. In desperation I stuck a twenty-dollar bill in my pocket, stuck Roosterman in the backseat, and took him for a ride.

  We visited all the different farms in our area. I knocked on doors. I wandered into barns. I chatted with farmers. One old geezer laughed heartily when he saw my little man. He pointed to three enormous roosters strutting about the barnyard and bet me that Roosterman wouldn’t last twenty-four hours with these guys. I hopped in the car and sped away. I offered the next farmer twenty bucks to take him, but she laughed too. Nobody wanted the handsome young fella in the backseat.

  Back at home, I looked around the yard. There had to be a solution. Maybe there was something I had missed. And sure enough, there it was, right in front of me. Lucy’s empty coop.

  That was it! I dragged the vacant coop into the woods and raked an enormous pile of leaves over it.

  I added a bowl of water and a bowl of food, and when evening fell I tucked Roosterman inside.

  It worked like a charm. The next day was Saturday. The morning was quiet and peaceful and the whole neighborhood slept luxuriously late. Long after sunrise, as I approached the leaf-covered coop to let Roosterman out, I heard him crowing inside. A very muffled, barely audible song.

  The soundproof coop was a success. My family was happy, the neighbors were thankful. I was now able to control the hour at which Roosterman would wake the entire world.

  And Lucy got to keep her little man. I was pleased for Lucy. She loved him so. The caged-rooster setup worked quite well for her too. She sat beside him and adored him all she wanted, and when she had enough, she hobbled away to spend some girl time with her good friend Hatsy.

  As Lucy ambled on painful toes toward the shade of the forsythia, Hatsy slowed her pace to walk beside her friend.

  19

  Cycles

  Each season had its effect on the flock. Springtime inspired Lucy’s bout of broodiness; molts often occur with the change of seasons, and there was a rhythm to Lucy’s health as well. She spent sultry summer days panting in the shade, and her inactivity brought stiffness to her legs.

  Sometimes I carried her inside to cool off in the kitchen.

  Other times she tottered to a cool shady place in the garden.

  In the coop, I placed extra containers of water, but I suspected that Lucy wasn’t drinking as much as she ought to because it took her such effort to get to the water cups. So when I visited the girls I made sure to place cool water directly in front of Lucy. She dipped her beak right up to her eyeballs and guzzled and sputtered and wheezed and guzzled some more.

  When I wasn’t around to look after her on summer days, I went straight to the coop as soon as I got home, no matter how late it was. Even in the dark of night when all had retired to the roost, I would reach up and press the cup gently against Lucy’s chest. She’d wake and greet me with a bup, and drink lustily. Danny was also concerned for Lucy and all the girls during the steamy summer, and I knew I could count on him to ply the ladies with plenty of cold grapes and ice water when I wasn’t around.

  Hatsy’s slender physique and sparseness of plumage served her well in the heat. She barely slowed down, spending much of her day zipping around snatching mosquitoes out of the heavy air.

  Voluptuous Lil’White spent a good part of the summer
panting and holding her wings out from her body in an effort to stay cool. She found dust baths in the shade to be quite refreshing, and she cooled her pretty toes by scratching around in moist soil. But unfortunately, her malevolent nature bubbled to the surface on one particularly hot, humid day.

  Although Lil’White had amended her behavior toward Lucy and had graciously stepped back down to the bottom position in the pecking order, she harbored a hefty passive-aggressive streak in her dark little soul. On that extremely hot day, Lil’White sat herself down in the nest box and, just out of spite, decided to act broody.