He said NO. No chickens ever, GB said in his firmest voice.
But I was smitten. We were visiting Stone Barns Center in the Hudson Valley, an organic educational farm and home of Michelin star restaurant Blue Hill. The laying hens were pasture-raised, meaning they had access to acres of fresh greens, worms, and yummy bugs. I picked up a Rhode Island Red and nuzzled her with my cheek. I looked lovingly at GB and, thought reader he is, he said NO. I let it go, understanding this skirmish as the in a war I would eventually win.
A few years later, Denver passed a pro chicken/goat ordinance. I mentioned it to GB. Again, he responded with a resounding and commanding NO GOATS! But, he slipped. His battle front wobbled just a bit. No goats. Ah, I thought. No goats. Yes chickens. So, I moved ahead. He responded with we don’t have a coop.
The lack of a proper coop tabled the matter until the Denver County Fair. I excitedly dragged GB to the lower level at the Coliseum to see the gorgeous hens, roosters, AND coops! GB liked a particular coop, thinking that the chickens would spend their time in a 93 square foot enclosure. I, of course, agreed to his dream knowing that it would be violated. There would be free-running chickens in our garden.
The coop, four hens and the builder arrived a few days later. I put up a makeshift fence that gave the new coop a small front yard. I also decorated the coop with various chicken items: carvings, pictures of roosters, dangling bird chimes. A few days after the initial installation, I asked our contractor if he wouldn’t mind building a permanent enclosure for the coop. He minded but since it was during the time of the Great Recession, he succumbed.
The first chicken died a few weeks later. I was sad. The first egg was laid a few months later. I was ecstatic! Now, in 13 years of chicken keeping, we’ve had more chickens than I can remember. They’ve all had names. Of course, they ended up roaming freely through our gardens and oftentimes in the house. I frequently heard GB hollering there’s a chicken in the house. I said NO CHICKENS IN THE HOUSE. He had said no chickens in the house, but, really, why would I take him at his word? Over the chicken years, GB would remindof all chicken difficulties but he gladly ate the eggs and sadly helped me bury those that died, were slaughtered by raccoons, disappeared with foxes, eaten by coyotes, or contracted weird sounding diseases. Our gardener, Evelyn repeated the wisdom of her grandmother whenever appropriate: Chickens always looking for a way to die.
The chickens led to nursing a turkey from The Urban Farm. Tom, yes that was his name, contracted some turkey disease and needed tending. I agreed to bring him home, much to the displeasure of GB. I kept him in the little study behind our garage. As he gained strength, he meandered through the garden, visiting with the chickens and the dogs. Waiting for his opportunity to exercise his vocal cords, Tom would perch himself in the front courtyard. Now the front courtyard was the prime dog observation post. The two Newfs and the two Grifters waited for people, dogs, bikes and slow-moving delivery trucks to parade by. The din of barks was ignored by our neighbors but the sound of the turkey gobble was not. People stopped and looked in amazement as the two Newfs, the two Grifters and the one large turkey stood at the fence making the most horrible ruckus.
During the time of Tom, our kitchen needed remodeling. The front door to the courtyard remained open for the contractor and his son to carry things in and out. The usual suspects wandered in and out. The Newfs. The Grifters. The Hens. And Tom. He hopped up the stairs, into the kitchen and began admiring his reflection in the stove. He gobbled for a while then marched back to his post in the courtyard.
When he had healed, he returned to the Urban Farm where he prospered for another six months. His illness returned and we humanely euthanized him. He was a very good turkey. (I hope you can see the video below!)
Chickens have unique personalities, as illustrated by MoDonna, a feisty silky who frequently went broody but lacked a rooster for fertilized eggs. Broody is chicken language for wanting to hatch chicks. Since we were rooster-less, we visited the Urban Farm and borrowed some potentially fertile eggs. MoDonna was happy to sit for the 21 days from egg to hatchling. She successfully hatched three eggs, with one chick surviving, which she taught essential skills. The chick learned how to go up and down the ladder to the nest, where water and food was, best places in the garden and how to hunt and peck for bugs. The flock would wander throughout the garden with little one close behind. When a hawk threatened the chick, MoDonna bravely protected it by leaping skyward, feet upwards. The hawk was easily deterred.
Within a few months, we began hearing strange crowing sounds from the chicken area. We discovered that, alas, our baby chick was a roo. We named him Henry. Denver has strict-rooster regulations and we began searching for rehoming options that precluded his eventual demise as someone’s dinner. We returned him to his embroyo-home, The Urban Farm where, as fortune would have it, he was needed. Henry remained happy with his flock of 20 hens. He protected them against predators and other roosters. He fulfilled the chicken biological imperative: making new chickens.
Modonna, Mother of All Chickens
And her son, Henry.
And, that brings me to Olive. As I said, all chickens have unique personalities, and each has its own quirks and amusements. But some are more interesting than others. Olive is such a case. She’s an Olive Egger which means she lays olive green eggs. Yes, chickens lay different colored eggs: white, brown, blue, chocolate brown, pinkish, and all shades thereof. Olive is a gorgeous girl but what makes her different is that she’s particularly smart. She’s clever. She’s an escape artist, learning how to leap over a fence and return home. She, like most backyard chickens, comes when she’s called but she’s always first to run across the yard. Watching chickens run is a miracle in itself. They hold their wings out, skipping, running, flapping, catching a little air, falling to the ground and stopping cold at their destination which, they figure, will result in treat. Olive also likes to be held. When hens are agreeing to sex, they hunch down. I interpret that as wanting to be held by me. It’s not really what she’s interested in but I’m in no position to accommodate her desires. So, I pick her up, nuzzle her with my cheek and give her a freeze-dried worm. Yes, chickens are omnivores. They do NOT like being fed vegetarian.
Olive the Bold
So, this fall we had a mouse infestation. That’s something that comes with chickens and years ago, I ran screaming at the sight of a mouse. Today, I’m sturdy, farm-like and prepared with snap traps should the mice get into the house. And, they did. Now, before you holler inhumane, let me just say that the most humane and quickest way of killing mice is through the snap trap. It’s instantaneous unless one is caught by the leg or tail. I set out the traps and each morning would pick them up with my grabber, take the corpse outside, call GB to come release the dead mouse and then I would pick it up with the grabber and bury it in the back of the garden. But one morning, a mouse was caught by its tail. I didn’t have the heart to let it suffer and I couldn’t do the deed myself, so I released it on top of a retaining wall next to our patio. As I turned to walk inside, I heard Olive running over. She grabbed the mouse and began to eat it. Olive, no! She dropped it. Then I thought, well of course. Olive, ok. The mouse scampered off with Olive chasing it. Once caught, Olive made a quick meal out of it. Wow. What a chicken. She gives us eggs and she’s a mouser! Who needs a cat? Next morning, Olive comes rooting around the patio area. She strains her neck and investigates nooks and crannies. Any mice there? She hops back over the fence to her yard, struts into the coop and bam, lays an egg.
That Olive. What a fine chicken.
Air. 
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