I’m heading into week three of my house-sitting/Midtown staycation, so today you’re getting a follow-up (you didn’t ask for) on my chicken adventures. I’ve just completed the morning hen ritual, wherein I rouse early and, still half-asleep, make my way to the backyard coop, where the girls are anxiously awaiting liberation. They chatter and squabble, crowding around the door and stepping on each other’s toes as I unlatch the lock and swing it open. Their five little fluffy bottoms scurry off, chicken legs waddling hurriedly as if heading into battle. (Release the hens!) “Battle,” in this case, is running directly to and hopping on top of the feed bins, poking at the lids to let me know it’s breakfast time — right now, dammit — and they’re pretty impatient ladies. If I’m not fast enough scooping out the feed, they’ll attempt to jump right in and help themselves.
I’ve learned a good bit about hens since I’ve been here — the different sounds they make, from contented cooing and trills, to alarm calls, to general chit-chat as they graze. I check their nests several times a day for eggs to avoid another broody mood like the one I wrote about in this space last week. As proud as I was to have picked up a chicken, I’d rather not have to do it again if it can be helped. So I listen for the laying songs, their triumphant clucks and squawks, and retrieve eggs before anyone gets too attached to them.
Also, chickens take dust baths. Here, they’ve burrowed divots in the dirt in shady spots in the yard where they roll around and flit their wings, shaking the earth through their feathers. Google tells me this controls parasites and prevents excess oiliness. Who knew? Not me.
I did, finally, work up the nerve to feed the girls fruit scraps out of my hands. At first to the oldest, who was hanging around on the porch by herself. She gently plucked a piece of grape from my palm. But the others caught on quickly — hey, where’s mine?! — and barreled over, scrambling for a treat. Four of the five gingerly took their share from my open hand. But big, bad Geli nearly drew blood.
Which brings me to another thing: the origin of “pecking order,” which I’d never really given much thought to before. According to Modern Farmer, it’s a hierarchy — literally established by pecking — that “determines the order in which chickens are allowed to access food, water, and dust-bathing areas,” among other things. Basically one bullies the others to establish dominance. And apparently Geli sees herself above me in this ranking. Last week, I mentioned how she leapt into my lap and pecked me. But since then, she’s become somewhat more aggressive, charging at me at times for no apparent reason. Well, I’m pretty sure it’s food-motivated because she’ll do it after bawking around the feed bins or if I’ve come outside sans treats (how dare I?). Where’s my food, lady? I require more. Peck, peck! I swear I’ve seen her sharpening her beak on wood and concrete, taunting me. How to align myself back at the top of the brood is something I’ll be studying in the coming days, as being attacked by an indignant chicken was not part of my staycation plans.
In a couple weeks, I’ll be back at my own home — the pecking order there as it’s always been — and this chicken adventure will be in my rearview. I’m sure a lot of you are wondering why the editor of this fine newspaper is writing about hens as opposed to current events, but please bear with me. They’re fascinating creatures, really — and part of this journey’s inadvertent goal has become resetting an overstimulated mind. Tuning out a tad is a given. I also think it’s the duty of any writer to purposely place themselves in new and different situations, to stimulate the creative flow. Things can get pretty stagnant otherwise. For now, hens it is.
Maybe some of you have learned a little, too. And perhaps we can ponder the pecking order in our human societal structures — in which ways they’re detrimental to the greater good or ways in which they may be beneficial. Are there areas in your life where you perceive a pecking order? If so, where do you stand? Think on it.
In the meantime, I’ve got to go check for eggs.
