© Another Day in the Country
I chuckled when I read about Marion’s rooster on Main Street. Chickens are difficult to photograph, even tame ones, so “Rah, Rah,” for the chicken paparazzo who got the candid shot.
I’d say he’s one happy chicken, living in the Marion park. It’s probably his version of camping out or going on vacation.
I’m guessing his original environment was not a happy one. Maybe he’s divorced. Obviously, he lost his job. But it sounds to me that in his homeless state, he’s doing quite well.
There’s a free-floating chicken in my back yard. It’s Brown Betty. Off and on she has trouble in the henhouse, I hear a ruckus, like the end of the chicken world, and I go out and release her from her tormentors. Well, I don’t have to, but I do.
Betty hangs around the outside of the fence. When it’s time to lay an egg, she begs me to shut the others out of the henhouse and let her lay her egg in peace. I usually do. But sometimes I’m busy and don’t notice her dilemma, so she lays her egg as close as she can to the right spot.
Sometimes I find an egg right under the window, or right below the nest box or right in front of the entrance to the henhouse. She’s saying, “I’d like to put it in the nest box but I couldn’t wait.”
This cruelty she’s been experiencing is not just from the rooster. It’s from several of the hens as well. He starts, and they join in and are merciless in their attack.
Knowing me, you know that it reminds me of people. I’m old enough to remember the beginnings of the women’s movement. There was this strange phenomenon with women who weren’t fighting for their rights and were criticizing the women who were. Like the hens, they did it ferociously.
For months now, I’ve been trying to figure out why Brown Betty gets picked on. I think I’ve finally figured it out. She’s too vocal. She isn’t submissive.
When Reggie the Rooster catches one of the hens, most of them bow in homage. Not Brown Betty. She will not crouch. She will not cower. Instead, she just screams her head off and flies all over the place.
This makes Reggie mad. The other hens who are usually busy bowing and scraping get mad, too, and they jump right in and give her “what for.”
My hypothesis works, I think, because the trouble in the henhouse seems to be seasonal.
The chickens have me on a routine, as chickens are apt to do. First thing in the morning when all the noise starts I go out to the chicken house and call Betty. She comes running for the door, and I let her out and make the rest stay in bondage, so to speak.
She’s out for the day (unless she tells me in time that she wants to lay an egg). Then toward evening I let all the chickens out in the yard — I do enjoy watching them — and she goes in to bed with the lot of them. You get the picture, day in and day out.
Then, on another day in the country, Betty changed her mind. She decided not to go in at all. Instead she roosted on the feed containers beside the house. I told her this was dangerous, but she decided to take the chance. I’m rather proud of her. She’s not standing for the abuse. Good for her. She knows the risks, but like all brave souls before her she says, “Give me liberty or give me death.”