The Minnesota Farm Woman

Earlier this summer, I purchased six baby chicks.  They were pullets, which in chickenese means girls.  The last thing I need around here is more roosters. I have plenty of them, even with the loss of Christopher Columbus earlier this year and old Baldy this summer.  I need hens.  Good laying hens. Nice young lay-an-egg-a-day hens. Unfortunately, one of the babies died after a few days, but I still had five strong young chicks.  The whole little group were inseparable friends. I have enjoyed watching them explore the yard this summer and it seemed that each day they grew bigger and more beautiful, especially one of them. She was larger than the others.  Her tail grew much longer with gorgeous dark green feathers.  She strutted around like she was “all that.”  It was the tail feathers more than anything that made me a little suspicious that she just might be a he. Still, one never knows.  She is an Araucana, which is a colorful breed which lays blue and green eggs, so maybe she was just extra-colorful.  At least I hoped that was the case. Last week was the clincher when she started crowing.  Even a former city-girl can figure that one out.  About the time the crowing started, he the former she started separating himself from the little group. He no longer frolicked with the girls, scratching for bugs and squawking and running when the bigger, meaner hens came near. He started watching them.  He lurked. He strutted. He cockadoodledooed. I had to come up with a manly name for him, and a Facebook reader came up with the perfect one: Henry. HENry, get it? I had to figure out why Henry all of a sudden became a loner. Being kind of a mother hen myself, I wonder and worry about these things. Sometimes chickens pick on each other, and roosters can be especially mean,  so I like to make sure everybody is safe and sound.  I watched carefully to make sure my boy wasn’t getting picked on. It didn’t take me very long to figure out what was really going on.  In the interest of keeping this a family friendly column, let me  just say that Henry was trying to “do the funky chicken” with his former playmates, and they didn’t like it. Not one bit.  They squawked. They pecked at him. They ran. Now, all he has to do is look at them and they run the other way.  Henry has learned that there’s a fine line between friendship and love and getting your feathers pecked off.  Today he started fluffing his feathers (probably trying to make himself appear a little older) and started flirting with the big girls.  He is not having much luck with this group either, because they’re much more interested in their next meal than their next romance.  The old gals don’t usually fall for the suave sophisticated type, even those with gorgeous green tail feathers.  Henry was eating his corn all by himself again tonight.  Mark my words. He’ll come up with another idea tomorrow.  When it comes to love, a rooster never gives up.

*Thank you, Darla O. for naming HENry! mfw