The Many Ways To Hold A Chicken

The last time I blogged it was about spring, and I wrote it in summer, and now it is unabashedly fall, going on winter. The fire sale of maple leaves carpeting the ground after last night’s rains. Heavy frosts coming. Even the kale is mopey. Those harsh winter winds pruning the woods. I can see a little more of Whiteface every day through the trees from the pasture. No snowliage on the Sandwich Range yet, but a short drive to the Presidential Range and they are already skiing Tucks.

I recently traveled for two nights to another Whiteface – near Lake Placid for a wedding and a hike – and decided to keep the birds in the barn for easier farm-sitting. Upon my return, the task is upon me to transport 48 hens from the barn back to the Shaw (our mobile coop). This is best done late at night when the birds are roosted and sleepy. As I pluck each hen like a grape from a vine and pop it into the hungry mouth of the Shaw, I get to know each bird a little better. Their personalities differ just as much as human personalities do. And the way they must be handled differ from bird to bird as well.

There are many ways to hold a chicken. I scoop up a Rhode Island Red like a football, her soft froggy gullet under my right hand, her wing pressed down under my left. Her head poking out in a silly slumber daze. The Shaw is about fifteen yards away, a huge rush by NFL standards. The next girl is a pitch-black Australorp. My hand rests under her breastbone. I can feel a grocery-store chicken under her warm feathers and plastic bag-thin skin. It doesn't say “vegetarian-fed” on it, thank God. Her head calmly presses into the nook of my elbow. I dunk her into the Shaw like a cookie into milk and march back up the hill to the barn. Some birds I grab with a little hug; capture the wings and you capture the bird. Some birds don’t want to be captured, their wings flail, they squawk and shriek. They’re busy dreaming of life on the seven pastures, sword-fights with bobcats wearing eye patches and rescuing damsels in distress to join their all-female band of merry piratesses. Then Farmer Rich comes along and scoops them out of their relaxing roost and throws them back in the hull of the ship. Then it's back to being cozy and dozy.

When it comes to the fidgety birds, I hold them upside down, at arm’s length. Usually their tail feathers fluff out in a comical manner – like how a cartoon character’s hair stands up when they get a-scared – and their protests quiet to calm little cheeps as blood rushes to their head. Just enjoy the ride, babe. A few seconds later they’re upright and just fine. Holding them this way sort of feels like carrying a baby who bears a fully loaded diaper about to sag off and that little bit of distance between hand and torso is a buffer zone. This may also be because I am holding a chicken butt-up, not much different than a loaded gun, to be honest. (If you’ve never been pooped on by a chicken, I will inform you: it’s unpleasant.)

There are chickens I do hold like babies. Because they are my babies. I coddle them, pet them, rock them, sing to them. It’s gonna be okay, baby girl. And I kiss their sleepy little combs. “Hey little cheeps,” I sing, “I’m gonna let you out tomorrow. Hey little cheeps, I know it’s green grass that you’re after.” I’ve been singing my song to them since they were chicks. “Hey little cheeps, so march your pretty little legs, down to the open pasture.”

And the big girls! – the kettlebells of the flock – woooo-eeee! Well I just try not to let go. Brownie and Circe and Squatty and Nocturna and Midnight Black. Birds with sass, birds with body. Some of the birds I’m only holding for the third time. Late in the summer we added twelve new hens to the flock – some Australorps and some Sussexes – and they were tossed right in the barn upon arrival to acclimate to our farm. It wasn’t until a few days before my adventure in the Adirondacks that all the birds were properly introduced to each other….

I docked the Shaw with its billowing skull and crossbones at the shores of the barn’s fenced-in run and let the barn birds get their guns ready. When I removed the electric netting to let the birds mingle for the first time, the professionally experienced marauders of Shaw Birds attacked the run, in a well-formed flank. The barn birds put up a small fight but retreated to an agreed-upon safe place, just outside the barn door. Chickens will scrap with each other as part of flock assimilation. This is just their socialization process. Normally a couple birds will peck around each other and test each other's patience, then they will flare out their feathers, raise their wings, stretch their necks, and karate chop each other. Get a few slaps in and someone scores a point and they retreat. Within a few hours all the birds were mostly friends. The Shaw Birds beat ‘em; the barn birds joined ‘em.

In the midst of the Great Chicken Battle of Sept. ‘24, Brownie, our Matriarchal General, waddled through the crossfire right into enemy territory to peruse the spoils of war. Feathers and grain flying, and she remained untouched. Providence favors Brownie the Great. She entered the barn, stretched her neck to peek into the nest boxes, sized up the roosts. Yes, yes, this will do. We shall take it as our own. And she strolled back to the Shaw with her feathers crossed behind her back to wait for the fight to end. Buff Orpington? Or Napoleon?

And now, the opposing forces ensconced within her ranks, they will set sail for a final voyage before winter settles in. There are bugs to pluck! Seed heads to pillage, dust baths to dig, buried treasure to un-bury! Ahoy!