July 2017
Of course I realize that I'm throwing a good deal of personal opinion and bias in here, but if you haven't fallen in love with a chicken I'd chalk it up to the fact that you just haven't been lucky enough to get to know one well enough yet. If this is the case, you may not be interested in knowing more about chickens than a good wine pairing. I will tell you anyway.
It's common knowledge that I spend entirely too much time with birds, but since immersion is generally the best way to learn a language at least I can say I'm now relatively fluent in chicken. A source of great pride for my family, to be sure and of course chickens have a language. Science agrees with me on this, 30 or more identifiable chicken sounds, and I speak for all of them when I say we feel validated. From their let me out of this coop squawk to their quiet evening chatter, they are exceptionally expressive little bundles of feathers. They start talking even before they pip out of their eggs and never stop. Although it's entirely possible that I've been known to talk to an unhatched egg on occasion, their "Help, there's a thing!" alarm call is the sound I learned first and best. It's the call that sends me running towards whatever they're running from and may likely one day send me straight into the waiting arms of a hungry bear. Not this particular morning, fortunately. Unfortunately, on this particular morning, Violet's shriek set me toe to toe with a huge and ok, beautiful, hungry red fox hot on the tail feathers of my littlest flock members. Since chickens also possess the ability to recognize faces, as many as 100 faces, even no make up straight out of bed and into the garden smudged with dirt topped with an unruly pile of blonde frizz faces, they headed straight for my pajama clad self, the fox in tow. Foxes, known for being clever creatures themselves, it would seem have an innate ability to read faces. At least this one did, because one look at mine armed with a garden hoe and a handful of mint sent him into a perfect turn on the haunches and back into the woods to tell the tale of the strangest looking frizzy haired chicken in striped pajamas that he'd ever encountered. A quick count (counting your chickens is fine unless your husband asks how many you have - in that case estimate, underestimate) turned up to be one wee fuzzy chick short. I looked, and called, and even braved the fox infested woods searching for Amaryllis Sarsaparilla, the little Silkie chick, to no avail. I locked up the hens safely in their run, gave Violet my deepest condolences, and after a brief mourning went back to the mint that it seems will someday conquer my yard. Violet, however, being a chicken and chickens possessing object permanence paired with the capacity for very real emotion and an ability to count, most definitely understood that we were one fuzzy chick short. Violet would stand at the edge of the run facing the woods and bellow and I would stop battling the mint to search, each time returning empty handed to tell her no luck. Violet would bellow and I would search again, for an hour, because for all of her chicken intelligence, Sassy didn't have the sense to come out of hiding and be found. Not all that surprising since she didn't have the sense to get in out of the rain the week before, making her the first recipient of my previously unpracticed chicken resuscitation technique. Chickens are individuals. Eventually, I had the sense to ring the bell, and was surprised to discover that four week old little Sassy had already learned that the sound of the bell is the sound of treats. Her favorite treats, so out she hopped, suddenly cured from her immobilizing fear of the fox. Ergo Amaryllis Sarsaparilla, little Miss Sassy Pants, remains a member of our flock. A troublesome, ridiculous, adorable member that will gladly debate the intelligence of chickens with you, even if some days she still can't find the door to the coop.
It's common knowledge that I spend entirely too much time with birds, but since immersion is generally the best way to learn a language at least I can say I'm now relatively fluent in chicken. A source of great pride for my family, to be sure and of course chickens have a language. Science agrees with me on this, 30 or more identifiable chicken sounds, and I speak for all of them when I say we feel validated. From their let me out of this coop squawk to their quiet evening chatter, they are exceptionally expressive little bundles of feathers. They start talking even before they pip out of their eggs and never stop. Although it's entirely possible that I've been known to talk to an unhatched egg on occasion, their "Help, there's a thing!" alarm call is the sound I learned first and best. It's the call that sends me running towards whatever they're running from and may likely one day send me straight into the waiting arms of a hungry bear. Not this particular morning, fortunately. Unfortunately, on this particular morning, Violet's shriek set me toe to toe with a huge and ok, beautiful, hungry red fox hot on the tail feathers of my littlest flock members. Since chickens also possess the ability to recognize faces, as many as 100 faces, even no make up straight out of bed and into the garden smudged with dirt topped with an unruly pile of blonde frizz faces, they headed straight for my pajama clad self, the fox in tow. Foxes, known for being clever creatures themselves, it would seem have an innate ability to read faces. At least this one did, because one look at mine armed with a garden hoe and a handful of mint sent him into a perfect turn on the haunches and back into the woods to tell the tale of the strangest looking frizzy haired chicken in striped pajamas that he'd ever encountered. A quick count (counting your chickens is fine unless your husband asks how many you have - in that case estimate, underestimate) turned up to be one wee fuzzy chick short. I looked, and called, and even braved the fox infested woods searching for Amaryllis Sarsaparilla, the little Silkie chick, to no avail. I locked up the hens safely in their run, gave Violet my deepest condolences, and after a brief mourning went back to the mint that it seems will someday conquer my yard. Violet, however, being a chicken and chickens possessing object permanence paired with the capacity for very real emotion and an ability to count, most definitely understood that we were one fuzzy chick short. Violet would stand at the edge of the run facing the woods and bellow and I would stop battling the mint to search, each time returning empty handed to tell her no luck. Violet would bellow and I would search again, for an hour, because for all of her chicken intelligence, Sassy didn't have the sense to come out of hiding and be found. Not all that surprising since she didn't have the sense to get in out of the rain the week before, making her the first recipient of my previously unpracticed chicken resuscitation technique. Chickens are individuals. Eventually, I had the sense to ring the bell, and was surprised to discover that four week old little Sassy had already learned that the sound of the bell is the sound of treats. Her favorite treats, so out she hopped, suddenly cured from her immobilizing fear of the fox. Ergo Amaryllis Sarsaparilla, little Miss Sassy Pants, remains a member of our flock. A troublesome, ridiculous, adorable member that will gladly debate the intelligence of chickens with you, even if some days she still can't find the door to the coop.
For further, more sciencey reading on chicken smarts:
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