I did have concerns about her condition. Her breathing seemed raspy, she was terribly skinny, and she continued to shuffle around with a hesitating step, in a squatting position.
Danny and Sarah came out to meet the new arrival.
“Is she going to live?” asked Sarah.
Danny offered Pigeon a piece of clover through the fencing, and she pecked at it.
“I don’t know.” I really didn’t know whether she’d survive. The best I could do was feed her and keep her comfortable.
I showered the little hen with all sorts of foods and treats. She didn’t know what to make of the apple slice. She peered into the feed cup and chose a small morsel, then looked all around to see if somebody was going to take it from her.
After a couple of days I opened the tractor door and invited her to explore the yard. She wasn’t too keen on leaving the safety of the tractor, but I was eventually able to lure her out with food and kind words.
The big sky overhead frightened her,
so she hunkered down beneath a shrub.
I tried to engage the hesitant hen, and after several days of good meals and gentle treatment she began to show interest in her new environment.
I delighted in introducing her to the finer things in life.
Pasta bewildered her.
She couldn’t figure out what to do with a raisin either.
One morning Pigeon met her first slice of tomato. After some hesitation, she pecked it. And if a chicken can smile, she did. She glanced nervously around, fully expecting someone to come take this precious treasure—but no one did.
Pigeon had found heaven.
When the weather warmed up, I enticed Pigeon out of her tractor by digging in the front garden with my trowel.
No chicken can resist freshly turned soil.
She stood beside me and watched, but her scratching-and-pecking skills were rusty.
I found a plump grub and tossed it in front of her. She didn’t see it. I picked it up and held it in my palm. She examined it closely with one eye, then pecked to the left of it. She looked again and pecked again and again, and finally hit her target. I wondered if there was a problem with her vision, and if this had contributed to her rank at the bottom of the pecking order in the attic.
Pigeon waited eagerly for me to unearth another treasure, but she didn’t scratch in the soil. Rather than watch the trowel, Pigeon watched my face, just as little Roosterman had watched his mother’s face.
What an endearing mystery this little hen was.
Marky was curious about the newcomer, and was eager to come over for a polite sniff. But I asked him to keep his distance while I worked with Pigeon in the front yard, so he did.
Pigeon acquired a measure of trust in the big white guy with the teeth, but she remained wary. She uttered “Oh-oh” to warn me of his proximity, just like the other hens had always done.
As the weeks passed, Pigeon’s fears faded away.
Scabs faded, too, and new feathers emerged.
My sadness over Hatsy began to fade as well. Pigeon was a comical companion. Her rehabilitation and healing were inspirational.
22
Pigeon Joins the Flock
When I wasn’t in the front yard with Pigeon, I was in the backyard observing how Lucy, Lil’White, and Roosterman were adjusting to life without their leader.
My heart still ached, and I had expected that Lucy and I would share our sadness together. But among the chickens I found myself alone in grief.
Lucy, Lil’White, and Roosterman adjusted just fine. They carried on. There was no rearranging of pecking order between the hens. There was no expression of sadness. There was no tear in Lucy’s eye.
Lucy wasn’t the type to drop facedown on the lawn and cry her eyes out over the loss of her friend. Yes, Hatsy was gone. But there were still grubs to be eaten and clover to pick. And the fox and the hawk were still patrolling in the shadows. So, blessed with the brain of a chicken, Lucy let go of her friend Hatsy and moved on.
Meanwhile, in the front yard, Pigeon bubbled with enthusiasm and curiosity and questions. She adored Danny and Sarah and the FedEx guy and any friend or stranger who happened by.
She sought adventure.
Mystery and excitement lurked just about everywhere.
The garden hose was always a thrill.
One day she met a rabbit who tolerated her enthusiasm for several minutes.
When there was nothing else to do, Pigeon ran.
Every day for Pigeon was the best day ever.
In just a couple of weeks, she filled out and feathered out and became a pretty young lady. She hadn’t yet laid any eggs, but I supposed she would work on those details when she was ready.
Still I had my doubts about integrating her into the flock. Would she be able to stand up to Lucy and Lil’White? Would my evil Orpington light into Pigeon and cause her to regress into the cowering pathetic bird I had discovered only a few weeks ago?
One afternoon as Pigeon helped me with a building project in the driveway, she looked up and froze.
Beyond the retaining wall, she had spied a mysterious golden beauty. The figment floated briefly among the irises and then disappeared behind the house.
Pigeon kept watching, but the lovely creature had vanished.
This was just too exciting for the both of us. Pigeon was in her final days of quarantine, and I couldn’t wait any longer to get on with our adventure.
The very next morning, I marched Pigeon to the backyard and she followed me like a puppy. As Pigeon and I rounded the corner, Lil’White and Lucy stood tall inside the coop and stared. Roosterman, in his cage, dropped one wing and did a little dance.
Pigeon puffed out her chest, lifted her tail, and instantly looked like a real chicken. She scurried on over to his cage to meet him.
I placed an empty cage over Pigeon and then opened the coop door for the girls. Lucy stepped out and eyed the little Barred Rock from a distance, while Lil’White completely ignored her.
Pigeon attempted a bit of posturing for the two strangers. She fluffed out her neck feathers and stepped from side to side, but her gestures had no effect on the girls. So she turned and flirted with Roosterman, and he entertained her tirelessly with his strutting and dancing and torturous song.
The next day I sprinkled chicken scratch on the lawn, put all three girls out there together, and stood by to rescue little Pigeon if necessary. Pigeon puffed herself up and prepared for battle.
She approached Lil’White and growled.
Lil’White turned around and made a beeline for the forsythia.
Pigeon turned to Lucy and growled.
Lucy sat down. Pigeon pecked her on the head.
“oooWip?” said Lucy.
But Pigeon wouldn’t take oooWip? for an answer. She kept on pecking. Lucy’s legs were hurting her that day so she couldn’t get away if she tried. Pigeon’s pecking was relentless.
I just couldn’t stand by and watch, so I gently inserted my garden rake between the two. Lucy stood up and Pigeon darted around the rake and squeezed in to get another peck at her. Wedged in there between Lucy and the rake, Pigeon took a good close look at Lucy’s plumage. She plucked a speck of dirt off Lucy’s back and then began to preen her.
I removed the rake. Lucy remained politely still, and Pigeon stayed at Lucy’s side, myopically examining Lucy’s feathers. When she was satisfied with whatever she had discovered, Pigeon gave her own scruffy plumage a triumphant shake.
And that was it. Lucy and Lil’White pretty much handed the throne to Pigeon. There was no battle, no interview, no discussion, no nothing.
Of all the outcomes I had envisioned, this one wasn’t even on the list.
Pigeon stood tall and surveyed her new realm. There was a lot of exploring to do. First, she visited Roosterman, who danced for his new queen. Then she checked out the coop. She spied the enormous feed bin and rushed right over. The prospect of unlimited food made her giddy, and all table manners were
abandoned as she dived in.
Lil’White, now curious about this newcomer, followed Pigeon into the coop and watched the new flock leader shovel food all over the floor.
Finally stuffed, and a bit full of herself, too, Pigeon turned to confront Lil’White for the second time. Lil’White submissively dipped her head below the level of Pigeon’s and held her pose until Pigeon had passed by.
I sat beside Lucy in the warm sunshine, and Pigeon flapped and zigzagged across the lawn to meet us. She looked up at me.
“Bwip?” Then she gave Lucy a peck on the head.
Lucy bupped. She rose stiffly to her feet and plucked a blade of grass.
Pigeon began to graze beside her.
Marky pranced over and asked me to throw his squeaky toy, but I told him “no.”
I didn’t want to miss a moment of this.
23
A Flock Once Again
As dusk fell, Lucy and Lil’White climbed the ladder to the henhouse and took their usual places on the roosts. Pigeon wandered around out in the coop down below and found a twig on the ground to sit on. I picked her up and placed her in the henhouse with her flock.
The next morning, I gave her a little lesson on climbing the ladder. It did no good. Every night Pigeon found herself another stick on the ground and sat on it until I went out and scooped her up and tucked her in. After a couple of weeks, however, she figured out the ramp on her own. Placing one foot haltingly in front of the other, her head lowered, she scrutinized each rung. Her poor vision was certainly part of the problem, but her bent toes didn’t help things either.
A chicken’s everyday scratching in the soil will normally wear her toenails down to a healthy length. But in Pigeon’s previous home in the attic, she had had no such opportunity. Her overgrown nails had caused the toes to curl back like petals of a fleur-de-lis, so hers were not the most functional of feet.
For the first few days of Pigeon’s reign, I gardened and watered and puttered around, and watched the flock’s activities and interactions out of the corner of my eye.
Lil’White drifted in and out of the picture in her aloof Lil’White style. She and Pigeon didn’t really have much to say to each other. But Lucy was different. Or … the same.
And Pigeon was smitten with Lucy.
Pigeon seemed to have decided right from the start that she was going to be Lucy’s very best friend.
She followed the enormous tottering
Barred Rock wherever she wandered.
Everywhere.
Always.
They visited their favorite fella together.
When Lucy needed to rest, Pigeon milled about nearby.
While Pigeon milled nearby, Lucy watched for hawks.
Lucy didn’t seem too thrilled to have this little shadow always at her heels. I think she would have liked Pigeon to give her a bit more personal space. But she tolerated the enthusiastic little hen and began to enjoy the attention.
In time Pigeon did acquire some confidence in her own chickenhood and began to give Lucy some breathing room.
And after a few months, our little fixer-upper evolved into a striking beauty.
She started laying eggs, too. And like the rest of the gals, Pigeon put her own personal spin on her product. Pigeon’s eggs looked just the way I’d have expected them to look.
Unique. Every one of them.
People ask me how I can tell Pigeon and Lucy apart. I guess that if I had fifty Barred Rocks, I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart, let alone know them as individuals. But with only two, the differences are like night and day.
Pigeon is compact and cute, with a Rubenesque figure.
Lucy, on the other hand, is a gargantuan and elegant bird.
Their conversations:
Pigeon ends every word with a question mark, while Lucy moans and laments.
Chickens recognize each other by their faces and the shape of their combs, and I can see that Lil’White has no problem telling the two Barred Rocks apart.
The girls recognize their favorite humans by faces and shapes, too.
The one time I wore a big floppy hat out to the coop, my ladies panicked. I removed the hat from my head, and when they saw my familiar frizzy mess of hair, they calmed right down.
When Danny comes out to visit, the girls recognize him instantly, and the three of them come thundering across the lawn to greet the Raisin Man, also known as the Stale Bagel Man and the Tomato Man.
I’ve done some rearranging in the chicken yard. There are some nice logs scattered around for Lucy to perch on, and I’ve transplanted fresh sod and weeds in the areas that had been scratched to bare soil. This year the ladies have their own magnificent tomato plant, which they grew themselves from a seed they must have missed. And with the soil so well fertilized by the flock, the plant is lush and abundant with fruit. I wrapped a fence around it for its own safety, and as the tomatoes ripen I feed them directly to the ladies. After all, they’re the ones who grew it.
I’ve added to the doghouse setup as well. Lucy has taken to sunning herself in there on cool mornings, so I built a platform to raise it up and improve her view. The doghouse now sits comfortably above winter snowdrifts and spring mud, and the structure is a favorite hangout for the whole flock.
Pigeon often squeezes in for a nap beside her best friend, and Lucy no longer appears to be annoyed by Pigeon’s need to be close. In fact, I’ve noticed Lucy doing some of the squeezing herself.
It’s not an easy job to be the very best friend of a behemoth like Lucy.
At the end of the day as the sun sets, Pigeon is always the first to go to roost. Once she’s settled in, she calls to her flock and they file right up the ramp to join her.
On a recent evening, Lucy’s legs were giving her a hard time and she didn’t have the strength to hop onto the roost inside the henhouse. Not wanting to sleep on the floor, Lucy hobbled back out into the coop to sit on an outdoor perch. After a while, Pigeon got down off her roost and went looking for Lucy. Out in the darkness, Pigeon carefully stepped onto the perch and sat down beside her friend.
That night when I went out to put Roosterman to bed and to lock everything up, I found these two beautiful ladies roosting outside together.
Two round shadows.
Two Barred Rocks.
Two compassionate hearts.
I remember, with a lump in my throat, the special bond between Lucy and Hatsy. I still can’t comprehend it—can’t put it into words. It’s something beautiful that simply was.
But perhaps I do understand this new connection between Lucy and Pigeon. I imagine that their personal hardships have fostered their sensitivity and compassion. On the other hand, maybe they both just happened to arrive on this earth equipped with beautiful caring souls.
I must remind myself that it’s probably sweeter to sit back and observe their evolving friendship as something that just is.
Lucy taught me that.
And what’s with Lil’White? Is she really evil, bitter, hopelessly self-absorbed, and borderline psychotic, or is she only misunderstood?
Again, a lesson from Lucy: I’ll let the questions go, and just enjoy what is. The chickens have filled my backyard with more hilarity and drama and life than I ever could have imagined, and the adventures continue. So I’ll pull up a stool and sit in the sun with my girls.
Because with a flock like mine, there’s little reason ever to be indoors.
To my husband, Danny, for his dedication, faith, support and love.
To my father, for providing me with a lifetime of inspiration.
To my mother, supplier of fresh crayons and enthusiasm.
To Beth Towne, whose backyard asylum thrills me and who is always there for Marky and the ladies.
To Patricia Giglio, who inspires me.
To Terry Golson, Chicken Guru.
To Meg Cherchia, who helps me stay on the path.
To Laurie Abkemeier, my immensely talented navigator and cheerleader.
&nbs
p; To Leslie Meredith, for envisioning this book and making it happen.
About the Author
Lauren Scheuer (LaurenScheuer.com) is a graduate of UCLA with a degree in Fine Art. She has illustrated more than a dozen children’s books, cookbooks, and activity books and has taught illustration classes at Massachusetts College of Art and Design. Lauren’s licensed artwork has appeared on puzzles, games, paper goods, greeting cards, and more. She lives in rural Massachusetts with her husband, their teenage daughter, Marky the terrier, and her flock of remarkable individuals.
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