Downsizing the Flock

Because of my upcoming ankle replacement surgery this winter, I decided to drastically reduce the size of my chicken flock. Considering that I once had 400 chickens, I thought 29 hens and two roosters already qualified as downsizing. Apparently, the term is relative.

But fewer chickens would mean less feed to haul, less manure to deal with and, most importantly, no more packaging and selling eggs. Ten or twelve good laying hens could provide all the eggs we could possibly use and still leave Gus, our livestock guardian dog, with something to guard. After all, a livestock guardian dog without livestock is just a 130-pound unemployed noisy flooff-ball with excellent benefits.

With winter fast approaching, this seemed like the best time to do it. I put a notice on our town Facebook page: “Downsizing my flock of chickens. I have layers that are one year old and some that are six months. Anyone interested? PM for more information and price.”

I was surprised by the response. Apparently, chickens are a hot commodity. I could have sold the entire flock—and possibly several chickens I didn't own—before the weekend was over.

The first family to set a pickup time wanted ten. Almost their entire flock had been wiped out in a single afternoon by one particularly determined raccoon, who subsequently discovered that Dad owned a shotgun. Later, the family found a few surviving hens hiding in a tree. And they say chickens are dumb.

We arranged for the family to come just after dark, when all the hens would be settled on their roosts and much easier to catch. They brought their young daughter, Lily, who was delighted to choose her new friends.

Her first choice was Marshmallow, my pretty white Ameraucana who lays beautiful blue eggs. Marshmallow was one of my favorites, so although I hated to see her go, I was glad she was going home with a little girl who was already smitten with her.

Next came Midnight and Chocolate, my two Black Australorps. I'd never been able to tell them apart, but Lily immediately pointed out that one had more reddish coloring in her neck feathers. I'd owned these chickens for over a year and apparently I needed a child I'd just met to introduce me to them properly.

Then she chose Andrea, a particularly pretty New Hampshire Red with a story of her own. The previous spring, my friend Andrea and I had split an order of ten mixed-breed chicks. Although she'd raised chicks before, four of her five died within the first few days. All five of mine were thriving, so she offered me her lone survivor in hopes of saving her. When I went to pick up the chick, I tried to figure out why she'd lost four when mine were doing fine. Andrea had been painting something in her basement. We couldn't smell fumes upstairs, but it was the only environmental difference we could identify. Whatever the cause, I brought the lonely little chick home, tucked her in with mine, and she thrived. She grew into a beautiful gal and, obviously, had to be named Andrea.

Lily's selections also included Hennifer Lopez, the Welsummer some readers may remember from my last book, Between the Fenceposts: Tales of Mud, Mayhem, and Manure. When I told the family Hennifer was famous and explained why, they bought a book. I had accidentally discovered a new marketing strategy—sell the cast.

The remaining hens weren't quite as notable and had somehow made it through life without acquiring names, but Lily left happy with ten new chickens to rebuild the family's flock. I was happy knowing that several birds I'd grown attached to were going somewhere they'd be loved and appreciated.

The next day, a friend who happened to be passing this way stopped for several more hens and was also going to take my two roosters, Mike Crowe II and Dusty Springfield. Mike, of course, was named in honor of Mike Rowe, because being a rooster is a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it. Readers may remember the original Mike Crowe, the Light Brahma rooster who challenged Gus one too many times. Gus eventually settled that disagreement once and for all.

Mike Crowe II appeared determined to uphold the family reputation. At only six months old, he was already boss of the coop and well on his way to becoming every bit as obnoxious as his predecessor. I'd read that Light Brahma roosters were supposed to be docile. Apparently neither of these Mike Crowes had access to the Internet.

Dusty Springfield was another story entirely.

Dusty had arrived as the free mystery chick McMurray Hatchery tucked into my last order. I'd gotten lucky the previous two years and received female mystery chicks, so I hoped I'd beaten the odds for a third time.

I didn't.

But for a while there was hope. The chick was exceptionally fluffy and very vocal, chattering constantly. Because it looked like a feather duster, I started calling it Dusty. From there, Dusty Springfield simply followed. The fact that the chick seemed determined to sing all day only made the name more appropriate.

Then one morning Dusty crowed. Apparently I'd gotten the career choice right but the gender wrong.

Dusty grew into a Buff Cochin rooster and quite possibly the most ridiculous-looking chicken I've ever owned. For anyone unfamiliar with Cochins, picture a large blond feather duster with feet. It's as though an angel somewhere was designing chickens, looked at an already heavily feathered bird and said, “You know what this chicken needs? More feathers!” Then added feathers to his legs. And his feet. And possibly several places where chickens don't actually require feathers but there was a surplus at the factory. He looks like someone swept up everything left on the floor after a pillow fight and glued it into the shape of a chicken.

Temperamentally, Dusty couldn't be more different from Mike. Mike, and even some of the older hens, chased him. Dusty spent much of his day sitting on the roost where everybody would leave him alone. So while Mike Crowe II was strutting around conducting hostile takeovers, Dusty Springfield was hiding upstairs hoping nobody noticed he worked there.

Originally, I'd planned to send both roosters on their way. I didn't need a rooster. I wasn't planning to hatch chicks, and if I was reducing the flock to ten or twelve hens, every mouth at the feeder ought to have a reason for being there. The Red Stars I was keeping certainly did. They are egg-laying machines. If I was going to keep only a handful of chickens, I wanted the ones most likely to keep the egg basket full.

Dusty's contribution to egg production was going to be difficult to measure. Actually, it was going to be zero. From a strictly agricultural standpoint, his résumé was terrible. But when it came time for him to leave, I hesitated.

The hens I was keeping were the same age as Dusty and he had been raised with them. All of the older hens who bullied him were leaving along with Mike Crowe II. For the first time in his life, Dusty was about to find himself the only rooster in a flock of ten or twelve young hens. His circumstances were improving dramatically.

I also worried about what would happen to such a docile rooster if he went into a larger flock containing several other roosters. Dusty's primary conflict-resolution strategy seemed to consist of getting onto the highest available object and waiting for everybody else to go away.

And there was one other consideration that had absolutely nothing to do with practical chicken management. Dusty makes me smile every time I look at him.

So Dusty Springfield stayed. Mike Crowe II rode away in a dog crate in the back of a truck along with 4 bully hens, head held high and dignity apparently intact. If he understood that he'd just been voted off the island, he wasn't letting on. From the look on his face, this wasn't exile. He was expanding his territory.

The Red Stars earned their places through cold, hard economics. They're here to produce eggs. Gus remains gainfully employed guarding them. And Dusty? Well, Dusty is apparently in charge of morale.

Besides, I've learned something after all these years of keeping chickens. They don't necessarily have to do anything useful to earn their keep. Sometimes they lay eggs. Sometimes they eat bugs. Sometimes they provide a livestock guardian dog with a reason to get out of bed in the morning. And sometimes they're several pounds of golden feathers wearing bell-bottoms who make you laugh just by walking across the yard.

There's also the possibility that Dusty will eventually provide something considerably more valuable than eggs. Another story. Come to think of it, he already has.

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