Chicken math is not funny, it’s educational.
Two years ago, I decided to start my small backyard flock. I thought that chicken math meant calculating space per head to ensure the health of the birds. I wanted three or four Silkie hens to walk around my garden, peck bugs and please me with their adorable looks and sweet demeanor. Yeah, I got the math, plenty of room here.
Fast forward a couple of years: I have a mixed flock of 16 girls with a bantam Cochin rooster, and a Silkie rooster in a solitary confinement because his bantam son tries to murder him.
So now there’s a treaty in my household that states no more chickens until we move to acreage.
Miso, the Silkie roo lost his mojo and his crow after his son overthrew him from the coop throne. The poor guy has become noticeably friendlier to my feeding hand that he used to attack with all his Silkie might.
I like seeing the friendly side of him that I thought was no longer there. I even started to like him a little bit again and felt bad for him being lonely. I tried rehoming the poor sucker but no one wanted him and so he stayed by himself and indulged in gluttony.
What happened next is actually my Easter Egger’s fault. She has not laid a blue egg in over six months and what kind of flock is it that doesn’t give blue eggs, right? So when someone was selling two young adorable bearded EEs I flew into my car. I put the newcomers in with my lonely Miso. He rose like a phoenix, took on caring for these two and last night I heard him crow.
I didn’t tell my partner about my gross violation of the chicken treaty. Like a thief in reverse, I snuck into my own shed in the dark and set them up with Miso, all the while looking over my shoulder.
In the following week I enjoyed messing with my gorgeous, wild looking little EEs and seeing how their company had been good for them all. Hey, it was easy too – I am their primary caretaker so no one else noticed them.
This morning my partner let the dog out while I was in the bathroom. I heard him through the door and it made me instantly freeze in my tracks.
“I need help. Now.” I rushed out to follow him through the deck into the back yard and towards the shed. This 220 pound 6′ man is wearing slippers and my short blue, bathrobe and means business.
“Honey, what’s going on?” I carefully inquire.
“There are two baby hawks living with Miso. WTF do we do?!”
He swung the shed door open to expose a happy red Silkie rooster, two puffy-cheeked 14 week old EE pullets and my fat deceit.
“Oh, honey, but those aren’t hawks. Those are Miso’s girlfriends. They are chickens. They will lay blue eggs when they are older, and Miso is no longer lonely and miserable. I heard him crow again!”
“Are you telling me that you snuck in two chickens and hid that from me?”
“Yes. Yes, I did. Look how awesome they are.”
“And just how long have they been here?”
“Umm, I am not sure. We would have to check with Miso.”
Thanks to Natalia Foreman for sharing her story and photos.
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Bitchin' Chickens 
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