Last week, I took a video of our daughter playing in the backyard, creating a nature collection, putting twigs, leaves, and a nice rock into a plastic tub. As she moved around, our flock of five little hens followed her, trying to see if the tub might have food in it. I watched the little video over and over, delighted by my child, sure, but really enjoying seeing those five bobbing heads running after her.
Sunday morning, I was just settling into some writing time when Julio came down to my desk and asked, “Which chicken is the darker red? And the black with orange mixed in?”
“Why?” I demanded, pretty sure I already knew.
“Just answer first,” he said.
It was Antiope and Persephone, killed by a fox. A fox who I am sure was big but seems to be getting bigger with each retelling. Julio was able to scare it off before it found Angelica, Eliza, and Peggy, who were terrified and hiding, but not before it got away with those two sweet girls’ heads.
Of course, losing a chicken is not like losing a person. We would even grieve much more if a coyote killed an alpaca or if the fox comes back and gets the dog. But, as my Great Aunt Jackie pointed out, once you name an animal it becomes a pet. It’s easy for me to think that they’re “just chickens.” They might be, but I think, given their general treatment, we have collectively bought a story that chickens are stupid, mean animals, not worth much. Even as a vegetarian, I thought this before I started to love our hens.
Over time, however, when I greeted our flock in the morning, I thought of a passage from the beautiful book Six Walks: In the Footsteps of Henry David Thoreau by Ben Shattuck. He writes about feelings of guilt that come with living in a system that distances us from the visceral, emotional realities of other animals. Of his chickens:
When, throughout this summer, I call to my two chickens to roost, these birds come to my feet, look at me with tilted heads, and I see the depth of red in their combs as vibrant as blood in a Rembrandt painting. They coo when they hear my footfalls down the garden path in the morning. I see them standing at the fence when I round the corner, waiting for me to open the gate. How sweet their cooing is, and how sad it would be if it ended (133).
Chickens may be simple animals, low in the pecking order of life, but like with most creatures, when you look closer, when you get to know them, they are beautiful, intelligent, and can be quite lovable.
Our chickens are friendly and we have not dealt with some of the meaner aspects of tending to them. With Julio as a mother hen, they grew from brand new chicks to a group of sweet, happy three-year-old birds. We started free-ranging them when the weather allowed in autumn of 2022 and then regularly the following spring and they loved it. We made our peace with the danger, but as they got into a routine of going out on sunny days, they started to run for the fence earlier and earlier, wanting to roam the yard like a marauding gang. Antiope was a smart, bold bird, the only one who would walk right up to me regularly and submit to a quick pat on the back. She was very curious and often seen with Persephone, a little but quick hen who was our daughter’s favorite and very sweet to a sometimes not-gentle toddler.
I am delighted that every time I open the back door, the crew comes running to see if I have an apple. And, once we feel safe letting them wander again, I will be sad to see the smaller size of the pack following the little girl around.
Before we got chickens, when I was in the research phase, I read a post from Chicken Scratch NY on “The Dark Side of Chicken Keeping”. Amidst a detailed list of the less-cute aspects of chicken keeping, she writes, “Chickens can find the dumbest way to kill themselves. You could put a chicken in an empty room and it would find a way to snap its neck.” So, I was always prepared for the idea that one of our chickens would die or that we would have to put one out of her misery if she got sick.
This is the first time we have lost birds (aside from a terrible incident while chicken-sitting). We felt lucky to have gotten through that deep freeze a couple months ago without Angelica dying. It won’t be the last time we lose chickens. We might lose one more from stress, and so we will try to find new friends for our remaining girls, building their flock back up. Death is part of life with animals. But how sweet Antiope and Persephone’s cooing was and how sad I am that it has ended.
I live with the same fear of losing more hens to a fox. And I too have a jar full of molted feathers. xo