If You Give a Girl a Hen: How My Backyard Chickens Changed My Life
- Taran McGinn
- Dec 8, 2024
- 12 min read
Updated: Dec 9, 2024
If a little girl’s neighbor buys four hens, she’s going to want to visit. If you let her visit, she’s going to want to feed them. If you let her feed them, she’ll start to love how their heads move when they peck. If she loves how they move, she’s going to want to visit again. If you let her visit again, she’s going to want some hens of her own. If you say no, she’s going to keep asking for the next four years. If she keeps asking for the next four years, she’s going to end up with several little chicks of her own in a cardboard box.
In that fashion, I successfully pleaded and bargained my way into my very own flock—It only took four quick years and a total of $350 in hard-earned chore money (and perhaps a pair of sad eyes as well). At the mature age of twelve, I was ready to become a mother. A mother of four hens, that is. With our secondhand chicken coop, a lovely cardboard box, a heat lamp, wood shavings, a food dish, a water dish, a large sack of medicated chick starter, mealworms—and the rest of my long shopping list—my parents were finally ready to accept our future as backyard chicken owners.
I will never forget the thrill of visiting our local farming store on that fine April afternoon. My little brother came along with me, excited to pick out which chicks to bring home. I remember peering over the large metal tanks in which the new hatchlings resided, admiring the little sounds they made, the warmth from the lamps, and especially the way they all piled onto one another for one glorious, adorable nap.
After an intense session of research, I knew exactly which breeds I wanted to get. My brother and I carefully examined the birds, waiting for the right ones to reveal themselves. Finally, in my little hands was a small box containing one Olive-egger, one Americana, one Welsummer, and one Golden Comet. I had never been so happy to hold a box. I had never been so happy to listen to the sounds of a bird. In that moment, I knew they were right—Motherhood truly is magical.
Of course, they were given their names as soon as possible. I had a list picked out and ready to go, all there was left to do was assign them to the chicks. Our Olive-egger, a pretty little bird with stripes all down her back, was then named Tilly. Her nearly identical sister, the Welsummer, was named Yolko. The little Golden Comet quick to return to her slumber, was named Lulu. And lastly, but certainly not least, was a little gray chick with yellow around her eyes, chosen by my brother because she “looked like a penguin”. (Unfortunately, according to my mother, it wasn’t fair for me to name all of them). He settled on the not-list-approved name Little Destructor Furious Killer. He called her Lil ‘D for short.
I spent my days hovering over the cardboard enclosure I had crafted for them, admiring them from above. They revealed their personalities to me day by day. The four of them were quite the bunch of siblings. Tilly had a knack for grabbing hold of Lil ‘D’s foot and dragging her across the box floor... I ended up building a time-out box for occasions like this. Meanwhile, Yolko secured her place as the anxious one, always hiding and flashing the look of concern on her face. Lulu, on the other hand, was entirely unbothered. She slept every chance she got.
Did you know it is actually a common phenomenon for chickens to drop dead for no apparent reason? Whether it be a heart attack or Sudden Death Syndrome, it is no secret that chickens are not known for their longevity. As I rushed to the box after school later that week, I had my first encounter with death. Stretched out on the box floor, was Lulu, not sleeping anymore. As any grieving mother would, I arranged a funeral. Wrapped in a coffin of tissue, buried in a corner of the garden, lay little Lulu. Above her grave, we stuck a little wooden rooster. Bright and yellow under the sun, I still think about her often.
The fact of the matter is chicks and hens bought from companies that mail-order their poultry exponentiate the risk of death for those birds. Shipping is very difficult for them, from fluctuation in temperature to lack of food and water. Lulu’s death might have felt surprising, but it was far from unusual and was a direct result of how “cheap” animals are deemed expendable.
The following week, we ventured back to the store, to pick out the fifth chick in our flock. A perfectly speckled Barnevelder seemed the only correct choice. Named by my father, little Jimi Hendrix was a perfect addition to this young flock.
After the first two weeks of life, we moved their enclosure into the garage, so as to provide them with more space to move and grow. The four of them grew quickly, each day losing their baby fluff and replacing it with the scruffy down of their early adulthood. As Tilly hit her awkward phase, the first three feathers on her forehead stood up in a quite fashionable mohawk (and she kept that going for the rest of her life). Yolko became continually more anxious, drawn to me for food and food alone. At least I had two hens—Tilly and Lil ‘D—who were open enough to receiving my affection.
My parents used to joke that Tilly was like a dog in a chicken’s body. I would spend my evenings out in the garage, teaching her tricks. Before she was even old enough to go outside, she learned to jump up and perch on my forearm if I held it out in front of her. Of course, I do not speak chicken. I couldn’t explain to her the rules of our games, but she always played along. In our own little mess of tag, we would chase each other around the yard, taking turns being the prey. Our greatest trick was something she came up with all on her own. Unprompted, she would jump up and up and up... and onto my head or shoulder, and balance there until she either fell or felt satisfied. Our family friends always ate that up.
Before we could officially move them outside, we had to finish setting up the coop. It became increasingly clear that the tiny red coop we bought off a sweet woman on Craigslist was not going to cut it in the security department. From the raccoons that roamed the night to the many neighborhood cats that roamed the day, their enclosure needed to be heavy-duty. And that’s exactly what it was going to be.
My mom being the handyman of my family, used scrap wood from our old porch to piece together a frame for a large, indestructible chicken run. The thick hardware mesh we wrapped it in went into the ground a full six inches, and the chain link gate that opened at the end closest to our garage door could be locked using a carabiner. I wasn’t letting anything get in where they would live.
It took some time and training, but our little flock began to adjust to their new outdoor home. Chickens operate based on the light-dark cycle, and their daily activities are greatly dictated by the amount of light they are exposed to. With some guidance into the coop, they started marching off to bed just as the sun would set—roosting in the late evening and rising with the sun.
My dad used to tell me that if I ever wanted another pet (after our dogs had passed) then it had to be something that didn’t eat or breathe or go to the bathroom... like a rock. And boy did that work out for him. My four beautiful rock-chickens were growing so quickly. In September of that year, when I went outside to check on them, to my surprise, a small green egg sat at the bottom of our porch stairs. It was still warm as I held it in my hands.
Tilly was the first to lay eggs, light green as her breed had predicted. I never quite figured out which of the others laid which colors, but we had a wonderful selection. Some were a brown-orange color, satisfyingly speckled and textured. Others were a lovely eggshell blue. I had always suspected those ones were from Lil ‘D.
The five of us spent a wonderful two years together. Tilly was easily the head hen, leading the others in and out of the coop and off and around the yard. Jimi developed a very sassy personality, pecking and squawking at her sisters any chance she got, but Tilly was still the leader. Lil ‘D was becoming more and more social with me, every once in a while, allowing me to sit with her in the grass and stroke her soft gray feathers. When I was lucky, she would sit so peacefully that her eyes would droop closed in a relaxed state of near sleep. Yolko on the other hand, had become the most paranoid hen I have ever encountered. She jumped at every noise, every sudden movement, and every time I would come within five feet of her. I loved her nonetheless, for she and I are similar in that way, anxiety disorders and all.
My second encounter with death was on a cold early morning. As I passed our obnoxiously loud Keurig positioned by the window that overlooked the coop, I saw an odd shape lying flat in the dirt. Head spinning, I went outside to examine it. Breaking my heart into itty bitty pieces, was Tilly, already hardened by the effects of rigor mortis. I remember stroking her feathers for the last time, and truly understanding how fleeting life can be. At two and a half years old, Tilly died without a clear reason and left the flock incomplete.
Even my dad mourned her. One head hen down, Jimi found her position as the new leader. Bossy as ever, she seemed to be playing the role quite well. Even as we fenced off part of our backyard (to spare some of the lawn from the shower of chicken poop), she stayed the same, and the three of them adapted.
After our period of mourning, we began looking for new additions to the flock. From a woman living about 40 minutes away, we adopted small black hens, only a year or so younger than ours at home. We introduced them into the flock slowly, allowing them to become familiar with the other hens as well as the coop. Our girls picked on them a little but that was to be expected. Siblings are never loving all the time.
My third encounter with death was only a week or so after this introduction. Face down in the coop, was Baloo, the larger of the two new hens. Her sister, Billie, wandered around confused and alone. I hadn’t had enough time to form any sort of bond with Baloo, but death is never easy. We said our goodbyes and continued on without her.
Billie kept on growing, bigger and bigger and bigger. She was the largest hen I had ever seen... until one morning we heard a rather odd shriek. It was choked and scratchy, like a half scream of a sick person. And with that, Billie became Billy, our surprise rooster. It was okay for a little while, as his pubescent shrieks weren’t at their fullest, but that didn’t change that where we lived it is illegal to own a rooster.
While it might be unconventional, our flock was made up of pets rather than poultry. The eggs were definitely a benefit of backyard chicken owning, but I would have loved them either way. It was important to us that Billy go somewhere that would let him live a long and happy life. To our luck, about an hour away was a farm looking for a young rooster to purchase. We drove the hour out to the farm, big and beautiful and full of chickens. Their flock was free range, and while still in danger of predatory attacks, they didn’t want to use Billy for meat, but rather as a male addition to the flock.
Billy had matured into a large, glistening rooster, flaunting his shiny black feathers any chance he got. I remember holding him for the last time, close to my chest. I also remember letting him go and watching him explore the large coop. That’s when I knew for certain that he would be just fine. I don’t know how he is doing now, but I have faith that alive or not, he lived a good life amongst his new family, happy and curious as he always was.
Back down to three hens, our flock was still mourning its original size. In May of the next year, we were on the search for hens yet again. This would be the last time we ever adopted. From a farm about the same distance as the last, we picked up two light brown hens. The larger one, who we named Pickles, had a gloriously floppy comb, covering one-half of her face. The smaller one, who my mother named Ruthy (after Ruth Bader Ginsberg, of course), was some sort of Americana or Easter-egger, with a round and fluffy face. Timid as they were, they cooed amongst themselves the whole ride home.
Introducing these two warmed my heart. The both of them were shy, having been thrown into an entirely new environment, but oh so sweet. They wandered the backyard, scratching at the tall grass, chasing bugs through the thick clover, and basking in the sun in the dirt patch near Lulu’s grave. One of my favorite chicken phenomena to witness was their group sunbathing. Feathers spread wide, limbs stretched out, the sunniest days brought five chickens out and across the lawn, reveling in the rays that warmed them so. Silly as it seemed, it was also beautiful. What a wonderful life it must have been, to lay in the sun and think only of the bees that buzzed around you.
The five of them lived together until death’s cold hand paid us another visit. One tragic night in March of 2023, came a large raccoon, as quiet as the bandit it resembled. With morning came the early opening of the small automatic door that released the hens each day, and with that, the first attack. The scene was gruesome, only partially hidden from me by my parents. Tufts of feathers were scattered across the dirt path outside the door, and blood smears were on the concrete foundation of our house. While I never saw their beaten bodies, I knew that the raccoon had been cruel enough to take only their heads, leaving the rest of them behind for us to find. And so, on my fourth encounter with death, I mourned my dear Lil ‘D and Pickles.
For the next year, we kept rocks on our porch in the event that we might hear the raccoon return. Our remaining three hens had been frightened, and it took time before they were comfortable in their run once again. They spent their final year with us as they always had, only slightly more alone. Together, Yolko, Jimi, and Ruthy kept the hen house going.
My heart hurts when I think about the three of them out there, in the cold. I often feel as though my remaining time with them was wasted. While I couldn’t help the amount of time it took for school and sports and all the other events that high school brings, there were very few times that I was able to go and visit them. I kept up with their feeding and watering, but it had been months since I sat on the lawn and held them.
When the raccoon finally came back, just weeks ago in mid-November, we lost another. Jimi, as sassy and opinionated as she was, was a heartbreak I wasn’t ready to take. After one too many weeks of putting off my outdoor chores, I went outside to check on them, and that is how I found her decapitated corpse, lying under the porch. Her sisters simply sat and watched as my mother removed her.
And yet, one didn’t seem to be enough. It still pains me to think of what I saw only two days following Jimi’s death. Interrupting my late-night math homework, a shriek rang throughout the house. Running out to look, rock in hand, I saw it sauntering away. I immediately slipped on my shoes and looked for the hens. In a neighbor's yard hid Yolko, predictably fleeing from any sort of danger. But bloodied and still alive in the middle of the lawn, lay sweet Ruthy. My most painful memory of that night is seeing her run in fear, hitting the fence, then the porch, then another fence. While we had arrived in time to stop her initial death, the raccoon had gouged her eyes, leaving her afraid, in pain, and entirely in the dark. As I carried her into the garage, she shook with a squawk so guttural I nearly had to bend over to puke.
In the Petco box we had once used to take Pickles to get dewormed, Ruthy sat uncomfortably as we said our goodbyes. I remember the tears falling, and I remember whispering to her that I loved her. My mom drove her to a clinic, where soon after, she was put to rest. Finally, no more pain.
Down to one. Yolko resided in a makeshift traumatized-chicken-oasis (a dog crate with blankets, food and water, and a perch). It only made me hurt more to know the heat lamp I had set up for her was the same one I had used to raise them when she was just a chick. When they were all just chicks. I spent each evening before bed talking to her. I sat by her crate just like I did the box.
Seven encounters with death and my heart aches. It might seem odd to feel so strongly about some backyard chickens, but now you know who they were, just like I did. I mothered them the best I could, and while their losses remind me of all my shortcomings as a responsible chicken owner, there is some comfort: playing in the snow, chasing butterflies, eating summer fruits, splashing in puddles, and basking under the sun, they lived a beautiful life.
Tilly, lively and energetic. Lulu, calm and collected. Yolko, anxious and aware. Lil ‘D, sweet and affectionate. Jimi, bossy and independent. Baloo, quiet and observant. Billy, curious and proud. Pickles, silly and social. Ruthy, timid and loyal.
I was lucky to know them, and I was lucky to love them. What this grief brought me was a new appreciation of the life I live. Yes, death will always circle back around, but before death there is life, and with life comes love. There is so much to love and learn from, and all we can do is our best. So, soak up the sun's rays with your arms stretched wide, feel the rain on your skin, hug the people that you love. Life is fleeting, but your time here is yours to fill.
Yolko has a new home, now. Adopted by a woman on a different farm, she was welcomed to come and “hang out” with her other forty or so hens. In her old age, Yolko will live her remaining life with new sisters, and never alone.
In my adulthood, if I ever decide to own chickens again, it will be in loving memory of my first flock. They taught me what it is to love. They taught me what it is to be responsible for one’s life. They taught me that no matter how things end, there is joy to find in every day. From the brooder to the grave, the circle of life isn’t a punishment, it’s a rare and fleeting gift.
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