My Chicken Story: Chicken Mamas

People have kept chickens for hundreds of years and, I’m sure, most viewed them as livestock. That doesn’t mean they didn’t have affection for their birds, but their purpose was clear: poultry was there to be eaten or provide eggs. There was none of those ‘bleeding heart’ ideas of spending money on a vet, bringing chickens into the house for care or seeing them as pets, akin to the family dog or cat.

One of the positives of this iteration of chicken keepers is that many of us spend time with our flock, notice individual characteristics and see them as more than ‘bird brains’. They are sentient beings deserving of good stewardship, and for some of us they are members of the family.

The following are two stories of folks that have come to love and respect their feathered friends.

Miraya Machuca

Starting in June 2023 I:

became a new chicken mom to five full grown Buff Orpingtons and five baby Lavender Orpingtons (that are not so tiny anymore)
raised those baby Orpingtons into healthy, medium-sized, sassy Orpingtons with no losses
successfully set up my first brooder that was safe and warm
pet a chicken for the first time in my life
collected fresh eggs for the first time
felt the heartbreak of losing three birds to a dog attack
bathed and blow dried a hen for the first time
syringe fed antibiotics to a chicken (also first time and hope to never have to do it again, but I will if required)
learned what ‘broody’ meant and was immediately full of fear and guilt when having to evict said broody hen out of the laying box
gave chickens dewormer paste by tricking them with bread
learned that chickens molt, but not all at the same time and not all the same way
set up a chicken hospital
learned what a lash egg was, treated it, and patient zero is alive and well today, bossy as ever
somehow got my husband to agree to a ‘chicken palace’ when he explicitly said “the chickens don’t need a chicken palace” a few months ago
taught our cat, Otis, to grow with and protect the girls; no harassing them. Now they follow and/or chase Otis around.
successfully integrated the big girls (Buff Orpingtons) with the little girls (Lavenders) and had no blood, no deaths, no chicken hospital admittance, and everyone comes home on time
learned I could love, care for, and fiercely protect a chicken. I like to think they love me too. If nothing else, we share a trauma bond from all of us trying to learn how to live with the other

So much to happen in a few months, but other chicken keepers’ questions and experiences have helped a new chicken mom navigate it all. For that, I am truly thankful. In this picture the girls are starting to head back to the coop after having dug up the freshly mulched flower beds, but they’re all healthy, happy, and getting along and that’s all that matters.

Unfortunately I can’t give credit to the following post as it was left as an anonymous comment on my Bitchin’ Chickens blog. Thanks to whoever you are.

I don’t have any good photos to go with this, but I thought I’d make an ‘auditory comment’. I am definitely a “my babies” type of chicken owner, each chicken having their own name with the exception of two identical “Goldies” (Buff Orpingtons) who answer to the name and can’t be told apart. So at night I go outside and yell their names and shout in singsong, “Foo-ood”, shake the bucket and they all come running from all over the yard towards the coop.

For predator protection, we have an electric fence yard of about 800 square feet around the coop, and my main aim is to get them inside that area and fed before dark, then they can forage around and I close the coop door once they are all inside. (Hopefully at some point I can afford an automatic door for that and make my job easier.)

I’ve no doubt they all know and love me, and I’ve come to know and love them and their antics and habits over the three years or so I’ve had them all. We are down to eight now and will be adding to the flock in the spring. Twisty (Twisted Sister) the Gold Laced Wyandotte who almost had her neck broken by the aggressive rooster Elvis (who is gone now), but survived and can turn her head 180 degrees either way as a result, waits for me to pick her up and launch her into flight as her evening ritual.

Her sister Dot won’t enter the coop via the ramp but needs the large door open so she can hop in. Astrid and Athena, the Easter Eggers, need to run furiously around the run until everyone is in, then eye me with paranoia until I stand back. Beebee, the last remaining Bielefelder (my fave, a gentle giant) follows me around the yard to make sure the bucket really has food and only hops in once I’ve filled the feeders. Red, a Welsummer, is queen of the flock, and she prances around everyone else (except the Easter Eggers who were later additions and won’t listen to her, which she resents). She will not enter the enclosure and screams a low scream to me until they are all in, then walks stately and slowly in to tell me, “It’s all good”.

The auditory part: We all talk back and forth, cluck, cry, I talk, they coo back, that’s all normal. I sing, “Good Night Ladies” to them every evening once the coop is closed and they sing back. I love to hear them cooing back to me, and I take it as a sign all is well. I may even tell them a story or talk to them if it’s not settled down at dusk.

We live on seven acres along the Potomac River on a little shelf of land that was once the higher river level thousands of years ago. It feels so secluded from the rest of the town above us and I feel so grateful for that. Until this past fall when a neighbor sauntered over the railroad tracks above us and down to our fence. “I wanted to introduce myself,” he said, “You’ve a nice place down here. And I wanted to meet the lady who sings to her chickens. Your voice carries so well up to our place. We love hearing your conversations.”

Thanks for the stories and photos. Featured photo credit: Cotcot Cotedeporc

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