Flights of Fancy

During my time in England, I got to learn about and care for the flock at No. 31.

The chickens: Sylvestor, Fluffy, Amber, Violet, and the Three Squawker Sisters. There’s a pecking order in this little flock led by Sylvestor (rooster), enforced by Amber and Violet, and tolerated by the Squawker Sisters. You know the saying, “Shit rolls downhill?” Well, poor little Fluffy is the bird at the bottom of that hill. I would watch the interaction of their group for hours, and I always walked away with admiration for Fluffy. No matter the pecks she received, or how many times she was chased away from a comfortable spot in the sun, she always let her presence known. Not in a proud, you ain’t moving me kind of way. But in a quiet, I’ve got purpose kind of way. She quickly became my favorite.

Fluffy - I love the feathers on her feet

Every morning I let them out of their house. Before I feed them, I let them scrounge around their yard. And because not all of the birds were ready to face the world at the same time, it would leave me with time to watch them emerge. Sylvestor was always first, then Amber or Violet, who were then slowly followed by the Squawker Sisters (one at a time). And finally, tentatively, Fluffy would peek her little head out of the door and make her way down the ladder to the yard. This whole process could take anywhere from 5 minutes to 30 minutes – depending on how late I was at getting their door opened.

Fluffy, Amber, Slyvestor, Violet

When I fed them their breakfast, I always saved a little extra to lay down for Fluffy once the big birds were busy pecking away at the feed. I love fruit and fresh vegetables so I would Google to see if I could share with the birds. I discovered that chickens can, and will, eat most anything you lay out for them. But I wanted to make sure what I was sharing was healthy for them so I would look it up. Before I knew it, suggestions for chicken maintenance would appear in the ads on Facebook. (Facebook’s data-miners are shockingly impressive. I am still receiving chicken ads, and I haven’t looked up chicken stuff in a few months.) Once I figured out what I could share with them, I’d enhance their breakfast, always leaving a little extra for my mascot, Fluffy. You really don’t need a compost pile when you have chickens, just saying.

The Squawker Sisters

I also learned that chickens need a certain amount of sunlight to lay eggs. I imagine that they need a little bit of desire as well. Despite my cajoling, bribing, and sweet talking, not one egg was laid while I was in charge of them. Every morning, after their house was vacated, I would hopefully check the nests for an egg or two. Every morning I was disappointed.

In the evening, before the sun would begin its descent, I would give the chickens their dinner. Sometimes I would stand out in the yard telling them about my day while they greedily sucked every last pellet. I enjoyed talking to the chickens, but I don’t think they really heard me. About ten minutes after the sun dipped below the horizon, the chickens took themselves to bed. It was a fascinating process. Each one would waddle closer to the house and then, casually, one-by-one they did their little chicken steps up the ladder and into their home. Sylvestor was usually the last in like he was making one final pass of the yard to ensure his harem was safely ensconced. Once they were in, I would make a visual check and then shut their door for the night.

Every two or three days I cleaned the henhouse. Before this experience, I wanted to have chickens of my own. After this experience and the duties of a chicken-shit collector, I no longer want to have chickens of my own. While necessary for the health of the birds, it really is a crappy chore (see what I did there?). I discovered that the smell of the chicken coop penetrates the fibers of clothing. Not bad if you’re just hanging around the house but pretty disturbing when you’re out and about trying to pull off the “rational human being who is capable of self-care ” act in public. It only took me a week to designate chicken-shit cleaning clothes. I’ve been home for two months now, and those clothes STILL have the memory of scent from the chicken coop.

I really enjoyed getting to know the fowl at Angie and Clint’s. I loved learning their personalities and hearing them cluck around in their yard. Perhaps, when I return in August, they might feel confident enough to lay an egg or two for me. And I’ll definitely be going to Primemark (like Wal-Mart) to get throw-away chicken coop clothes.