So we had this rooster, right? We named him King, because he was a Polish, and as you may know, Polish have these weird crown-like, pompoms on their heads.  Also he had a kind of regal air, strutting around like Mick Jagger on stage, thrusting his chest forward as roosters are want to do.

This is, I guess, a kind of typical rooster story, because I’ve heard it in some iteration or other several times.  But here’s how this one went down.

At about ten months into King’s life, when he was fully grown and was just beginning to exercise his duties as a rooster, he also became very aggressive towards us. In particular to the kids who were 3 and 5 at the time.

Out of the blue, he would launch himself at them, flapping his wings, achieving lift off for several yards, and projecting his raptor’s claws out in front of him.  The youngest was very scared. The oldest a little less so, and liked to provoke him into a fight, then run away screaming. The youngest once walked about a half mile around the yard to get back to the house in order to avoid “the Kingdom.”

Eventually, we had suffered enough. We had gotten over our affection for him, and he was no longer the cute chick that he had been. One attack too many decided it, and I got my gun.

All I had to hand was a .177 caliber air rifle. Not being a hunting man, since I find anything but killing for subsistence pretty senseless,  I didn’t have a shotgun or rifle. But the air rifle was surely good enough for a Polish bantam.

Cover your eyes if you don’t like violence.

I took aim from about six feet away and shot him in the head. Cold, ain’t it?

He rolled down the bank and then got up again and looked like he was drunk.

 So I reloaded and stalked to within six feet again and fired.  This time there was blood. He flapped and rolled, but was back on his feet.

It took me a third shot into his tiny brain to end it.

The hens were looking confused. “Sure, King was a B*&%$@d, but is he coming for us next?”

After that I plucked and dressed him, and put him in the slow cooker with lots of red wine, potatoes onions and a bunch of spices. He was kind of skinny, but he cooked up real good.

“Is this King?” one of the kids asked.  My wife looked at me.

“Yup.”

“Not bad, is he?”

So, for all of you roosters out there….

Watch it.

We were first-time backyard chicken owners with six Rhode Island Reds. One afternoon I noticed one of our hens, Bertha, was not acting right. I tried to feed her and see if I could help, but I decided the best thing to do was to pick her up and leave her in the shade in a secure place. When it was time to lock the girls up I noticed Bertha was missing. We did a search, but could not find her. The next morning still no Bertha. My six-year-old son and I eventually found her in a row of hedges.

Unfortunately, Bertha had  passed away sometime between the last time I had seen her and the morning.  She showed no signs of injury or harm, so I determined she must have been sick and died of natural causes. My son and my three daughters were upset at the loss of our pet, and decided that a proper burial was in order. We dug the grave, said a few words, and said good-bye to Bertha. When my neighbors would stop by and do a quick count, they quickly asked what happed to the sixth hen. My daughter Laurette would always tell them that Bertha went to Kevin. After many puzzled looks I had to point to our make shift grave and explain, “Bertha went to Kevin.”

Contributer Bio: Bryan and his family live in Remsenburg on the east end of Long Island, NY.

What kind of Chicken person am I: I have a couple chickens

This post was submitted by Bryan Schaumloffel.

She was sad, mad, and unhappy. Her friends and sisters had died. It had taken a week to happen.  The raccoon taking two to four chickens every one to three nights until we were at one.  We had started at 10 that week.  The last chicken proved to me that a chicken is more than a chicken; they are people with strong feelings.

Chicken Sandwich (what my dad called her for she never had an actual name) took the matter into her own hands.  She decided she was to never go near the coup where all her friends died, not even near it.  She decided to sleep in a tree one night.  I was outside one evening and I saw the chicken going near the woods down the grassy hill (away from the coup).  She pecked the ground in search of grub, clovers, and grass for her dinner. Just as the sun was about to go down she flapped her wings and jumped trying to get into the tree.  Oops she missed the pine branch and fluttered to the ground blowing a few feathers onto the green, dewy grass. She tried again making the branch 6 feet tall.  By that time the sky had turned green-blue with some midnight blue surrounding it and the sun had disappeared from view.  The lonely, sad chicken then jumped up one more branch out of vision.  I went over and looked up and she looked down.

“What are you doing pretty girl?”  She answered me blinking her black eyes with a light voice sweetly.  She stood up nervously so I backed up the hill a bit, then she settled back down, sitting on her branch again.   I’m really going to miss you Chicky, I thought, I really wish I wasn’t leaving you.  It’s like a nightmare come true. My eyes watered slightly making mosquitoes come nearer to my face.  Slap!  I slapped a mosquito near my eye; I really don’t need a big, red, blotch on my face! I laughed as the chicken kept talking to me in her low whispery voice.  My dad tried taking pictures of the chicken looking down on us but they didn’t turn out very well.   It made me smile to think of a chicken looking down on me; it’s supposed to be the other way around.  I laughed and smiled the rest of the night knowing this would end soon, very soon.

A couple of days later she came up onto the old peeling, blue porch looking for someone to talk to.  She found me on the porch eating pretzels on our blue and green chairs.  The chicken talked to me and jumped at my hand trying to get my pretzels, so I broke them into chicken bite-size pieces and through them to her.  She pecked them then gulped them down greedily wanting more.   I gave her my last three pretzels then went inside.

At one point she got too lonely outside in the yard and wanted to come inside with us.  She had the most peculiar idea of jumping at the windows to get inside the house and say hi.
“Myah look,” my mom pointed to the window as the chicken was fluttering her wings and flying at the glass.   I laughed with my mom watching her do it over and over trying to get inside with us.
The very next day she did the exact same thing while my parents were working outside in the yard on the garden.  When they came in for lunch they left the door open wide and the chicken just walked in looking around to see if it was safe.  She talked to us in her soft voice and we talked to her.  She looked at us with her head sideways and talked some more.  Eventually we had to shoo her out of the house since she would probably soon go to the bathroom on the floor (thus the reason why I always wear shoes outside is because I might find chicken surprise in the grass).

The summer was soon to end and moving time was coming closer and closer.  My grandparents decided to come and visit.  They both loved the chicken as much as we did.  The time soon came and we had to travel south to go to New York City and drop my grandparents off on the way in Boston to catch their plane.

“Myah can you please fill these two containers with bird feed for Kathy to feed the chicken with?” My mom asked me the night before we were to departure on our road trip.

“Yeah, sure mom,” I answered before running out the door with the containers passing the chicken on her roost my dad had made for her.   I jerked the shed doors open and ran in.  Once I got to the feed bags I started scooping it into the plastic, black containers.  When I was done filling each one I snapped the clear lids on.  As soon as I was completed with the task I brought them back in the house to eat dinner.

I woke up to the sound of people bustling downstairs adding the finishing touches to their bags.  I looked at the clock and saw it was 5:00 am, might as well get ready for the long road trip ahead.  I put on my clothes as quick as possible and rushed downstairs to say good-bye to the chicken and give her hope for the long week ahead.  I opened the door after going through the crowd of my family on the first floor.   When I opened the door there was no chicken where it should be.  There were feathers, only feathers.  They trailed down the blue peeling porch and into the grass.  I stared in disbelief but there were no tears coming until I saw my grandmother come to me. She came to me as I was boiling over in hot, salty tears.

“I know how much you loved her sweetie.”

Later I ran over and gathered some of her fluffy black feathers and stuck them in a plastic bag, then put them in my room.   I put on my coat and we drove away teary eyed, never to see our beloved chicken again.

Contributer Bio: I’ve had many chickens and many losses. I’m 11 years old and now live in New York City full time but get to visit friend’s chickens in Maine.

What kind of Chicken person am I: Rural Community – 25 Chickens or less

This post was submitted by Myah Lunceford.

Hello,
I’m Jill and I have owned at one time every exotic pet out there that can fit into my small apartment. From ferrets to flying squirrels.
One day when I was on a Button Quail forum someone mentioned they were thinking of getting a Serama chicken. So I just had to look up what a Serama chicken was. After seeing some pictures on the Internet I was hooked.

I found out that they are the smallest chickens in the world. In Malaysia where they are from many people keep them indoors and are just as popular as dogs and cats. They have only been in this country about ten years so it wasn’t easy to find a good breeder. I already had an incubator so I got a hold of some Serama eggs. Although, people were telling me that shipped eggs are very difficult to hatch with this breed of chicken, I went ahead anyway. I received 25 eggs and after 19 days in the incubator one lone egg hatched. I called the small yellow chick Solo. I placed a stuffed hedgehog in with her as well as a feather duster to serve as foster parents. At about one month I could tell the little chick would turn out to be a hen so I was thrilled. Roosters don’t cut it in the city due to the crowing factor.

Solo is now five months old and laying an egg about every other day. She is only about a pound which is on the bigger side for Serama’s which average about 12 to 14 oz. My dog and cat get along with her just fine and she’s not scared of them at all. When out of her cage she is in her chicken diaper. Yes, they have chicken diapers I couldn’t believe it myself. She is so lovable and cute. I’m so crazy about her that I uploaded a YouTube video showing the world how Solo makes such a wonderful little indoor pet. Check it out at

The web site I’m hoping will form a community of indoor chicken owners like myself who feel indoor chickens make wonderful pets.

My Solo makes me laugh daily she is so sweet and cute and is a very easy pet to keep. In return she gives me breakfast so I say move over Polly because chickens are moving in.

Contributer Bio: My name is Jill and I live in Massachusetts with my indoor chicken Solo, papillon Jack, and kitty Dusty.

What kind of Chicken person am I: I have a couple chickens

This post was submitted by Jill Warnick.

Growing up as kids we always had dogs and chickens in the yard. One morning before church, my father decided to heat up a sweet potato in the oven and eat it for breakfast. After getting dressed and getting the rest of us kids ready we were running late .  As we were running out the door my dad remembered the potato in the oven and being late he didnt have time to eat it so he picked it up and tossed it out the back door.

We had an old road island red rooster.  When we opened the back door he would race up and knock everything out of his way to see if it looked good to eat. The dog and the chickens came up and were looking at the potato, and i guess the rooster just loved sweet potatos.  Here he came like he was running for a touch down. He jumped over chickens and under the dog and around the tree. He knocked chickens down and without even investigating it he burried his beak all of the way to his eyeballs in that thing.  Then he picked his head up so proudly , like he had won the prize.

The other chickens looked at him as he balanced that potato on his beak. Well if you know anything about sweet potatos when you heat them up to 10 millon degrees and toss them outside they pretty much stay 10 millon degrees for about a day. Well that rooster looked over that potato at the other chickens, looking each one of them in the eye like he  had done something special. He looked this way and that, and i guess at that time the heat hit him, and  he shook his head, but the potato was still there.  He shook it harder and harder but it was stuck. Finally he sat down on his butt, and with both feet pushed it off. He got up, and i didnt know a chicken could spit, but i think he was spitting at it, and then he put one wing down and walked around it shaking his head and spitting at that potato. Every now and then he would jump at it trying to spur it.

The rooster looked at the other chickens, they looked at him, and all at once they jumped and flapped their wings and ran around. They were cackling at him. That was the funnest thing they ever saw.  After that, when we tossed out a sweet potato he would run up to it,  walk around it, turn and look at it out the side of his head, and say “awwwwwwwww” then touch it with his toe first.

Contributer Bio: 75 words or less about you as pertaining to this story and chickens in general.
Im a 51 year young man that moved to the city but now im back in the country about to get some more chickens

What kind of Chicken person am I: Rural Community – 25 Chickens or less

This post was submitted by RANDY.

For the past 20 years, we have had a flock of free range, nondescript hens and roosters. As a teacher, I have seen every year the wonder in my students’ eyes when we incubated eggs at school. Concurrently, I always allow one or two broody hens to sit on and hatch eggs, so that when the incubated chicks return home, they will accept them along with their own.
One day in early spring, our black hen, who was heretofore nameless, disappeared. We feared the worst, that she had been absconded by a hawk, fox, or raccoon. As time passed, we gave her up for lost.
At this point in the story, I should mention that we have horses and a two-story barn. The second story is our hay loft.
One morning, when we went out to feed the horses and chickens, we heard the unmistakeable sound of a baby chick. We followed the sound up the stairs to the hay loft, and discovered our missing black hen, hiding behind some bales of hay, having stolen a nest and somehow hatched out 9 babies without our noticing. The baby that gave away her hiding place was on the floor, having fallen off the bale of hay that was the nest.
We moved the new little family to our nursery building so that our secretive hen could take care of them properly without fear of predators and falling out of the nest. From then on our little hen was given the name of Heidi (Hide-ee), and she has been hatching out babies every year since then.

Contributer Bio: I was born in the suburbs and always yearned for the country life and animals. I got my wish 27 years ago and have been blessed with many chickens, each having their own unique personalities. Caring for them has been a rewarding experience. Life without animals? I don’t think so!

What kind of Chicken person am I: Rural Community – 25 Chickens or less

This post was submitted by Jean Sweezey.

As a child I grew up on a “hobby farm” way up north. We had a smattering of most barnyard animals represented on the farm. Some were intentionally sought out and some found their way to us through rescue or chance. The most endearing critters (in my mind) were the chickens that we had through the years. Ordered through the local hardware store, they would come in flat cardboard boxes with holes in them just big enough to peek through. We would bring them home and me and my sister would immediately take them all out and put them in the hay-covered area designated for the chicks, by the brooding lights.

While many of the chickens were raised to feed our family, we always kept a few of them as a source of eggs and for the sheer pleasure of their company. Even though we raised quite a few with the intention of supplying our dinner table with much needed sustenance, we fully respected them for the wonderful animals they were.  As such, we provided them with all that we, as fellow critters, would want to stay happy during our lives. This included substantial time in our vast yard “free ranging” on the delicious grass and keeping the insect population down for us.

One afternoon we were corralling them back to their coop for the night. This was a necessity as they would sometimes try and roost in the trees which was a distinctly bad decision on their part, due to the number of predators that made our 90 acres their home. Even though we had the help of a very eager Australian Shepard, one lone rooster was adamant on staying out of the coop for the night. We tried for about an hour to get him into his home but to no avail.  He escaped into the woods and was long gone.

We hoped for the best but didn’t think a brown domesticated rooster would stand much of a chance against the weasels, foxes, hawks, etc. for very long. When he didn’t show up by evening we went in and went to bed feeling sorry for the poor little guy.

We got up the next day and while doing the morning chores I stopped in amazement. Far, far in the distance I could hear crowing! The little bugger had made it through the night! We hoped that he would return home by the end of the day but, alas, he did not. Again, we assumed he had met his end. But, wouldn’t you know it, we heard the same crowing again the next morning as well. This was one plucky chicken! This went on for five days — surely this couldn’t last forever! On day 6 he turned up in the yard. He had fought the good fight and lived to tell about it. From then on he was our resident rooster — how could we send such a hero to a fate as mundane as the stew pot? He never did wander very far from the coop from then on, but I am pretty sure I saw him look into the woods from time to time with a knowing look in his eye.

Contributer Bio: I spent my wonderful childhood years on our amazing 90 wooded acres. The freedom to roam and the responsibility for our critters led me to a life of environmentalism with a strong passion for animal rights. I now have converted to “city life” but I have found immense enjoyment in it via a large garden and edible landscaping. Chickens are to be added to our menagerie by the end of this summer

What kind of Chicken person am I: Rural Community – 25 Chickens or less

This post was submitted by Amanda Bradshaw-Burks.

I came to be the owner of a very handsome and proud New Hampshire Red. He was destined for the stew pot, but his owner really wanted to find a home for him.  That is how I came home one day with a rooster sitting on the dashboard of my truck.

We decided to name him Leo because he was a rooster with confidence and grit.  He was also a rooster who did not take kindly to being caged up. So we gave Leo free range of the yard, and he seemed to love to leave me “calling cards” on the hood of my truck.

Well, Leo was already a well-traveled young man being he came from three towns over.  But one evening he displayed his love for travel in a whole new way.  My wife mentioned that we were out of milk, so I headed to the truck to drive to the local store.  Looking around to make sure Leo was not on my truck or behind me, I jumped in,  started my truck and backed out to make my trip. I drove the mile and a half to the store, walked in and made my purchase, stopped and chatted for a moment and headed back to the truck.

As I walked across the parking lot I caught a glimpse of a TAIL FEATHER!  As I looked under the truck, I got the shock of my life: There was Leo, perched on the axle, looking at me as if to say “are you done yet? I have a yard to pick over.”  Well try as I might I could not entice him out.  After suffering enough laughter from a few folks, I decided that my best option was to drive slowly home.  The return trip took forever,  as I was watching for a feather puff to pop out behind me, but eventually we made it home safely. After turning off the truck, Leo popped out, waited for his crack corn snack,  hopped ontop the hood and deposited something I thought he would have got rid of already. 

 Unfortunetly Leo is no longer with us as a hawk came down one day and caught him.  Needless to say, Leo and I had a good time together. I could call to him and he would come running and loved to be picked up and have a pet (when he wanted it of course). I hope you enjoy the story as much as I enjoyed living it.

Contributer Bio: I live in Maine. I own several bantams and will be receiving 50 Buckeyes this spring. I own a Wildlife Removal business and my children have a chance to experiance many diffrent animals. We also have 2 dogs, 2 cats.

What kind of Chicken person am I: Rural Community – 25 Chickens or less

This post was submitted by Jason Coombs.

There were all sorts of vehicles pulled over to both sides of the road at either end of the bridge. The bridge allowed the crossing of traffic over the languid Tarcoles River in Costa Rica. We pulled over and jumped out of the SUV, and jogged to the bridge to discover the source of excitement.
When we peered over the edge we saw a ferocious specimen of the salt water crocodile! We had been looking forward to seeing a crocodile and had gotten a creepy feeling when we had stood in or near water since we had arrived. The “No Baño” signs with a picture of dangling legs and jaws of destruction only intensified the imaginings.
As we continued to peer over the edge we could count at least a dozen of the beasts ranging in size from a small kayak to a car. We then noticed on the opposite bank a horse begin to approach the edge of the water.  Perhaps we would now see some real action!

The horse nonchalantly walked to the river’s edge and began to drink. The crocodiles continued to lounge in the water.  Why was everything so calm when there was a perfect opportunity for a meal for the deadly beasts?

“Chicken,” said a park ranger near by, as if reading our minds.

“Excuse me?”

“They eat too much chicken,” he said gesturing at the crocs.

“Where do they get that from?”

“Up river, at the chicken farm. They get fed fat fresh chicken every day.  They don’t need to eat fish, even, they’re so full of chicken meat!” He wandered off, chuckling.

We thought of our hens back home, bred for laying eggs. We knew that they were better off than the industrial battery hens that produce most of the eggs in the US. But these Costa Rican chickens? Food for crocs! How low on the food chain could they get? The chicken, it seemed, down here, was so plentiful it could grace both human and crocodile dinner table without breaking a sweat.

Who would have thought it would come to this!

This post was submitted by Erika Lunceford.

This happened in the evening of Christmas Eve.  My grandma and I were feeding the animals outside.  It was quite cold and the snow was pretty deep, maybe six to eight inches.  We were almost finished and my grandma told me to go back in the house when I was done feeding the two Pomeranians in their lot.  I told her I would, so she went inside.

After I poured the food into their lot.  I heard a chicken hollering loudly.  I instinctively turned to where it was coming from and there was our White Leghorn rooster named Blanco getting chased and hurt by the dogs in the other lot.

I dropped the dog food bucket and sprinted to the dog lot and grabbed the old rake that was leaning against the lot.  I unlocked the dog lot and quickly ran to the Male Maltese dog who had his jaws on Blanco’s neck and was pinning her to the ground.  The Female Yorkshire was biting on his tail feathers.

I kicked her away and she whimpered and ran from me.  The Female Maltese did nothing except watch.  I struck the Male Maltese with the wooden handle end of the rake several times (not enough to severly hurt him though).   He whimpered some and then started growling at me because my foot was on his body and neck preventing him from doing any harm to Blanco.  I looked over to Blanco, he wasn’t breathing well and his eyes opened and closed a few times.  Then suddenly the Male Maltese started biting him again aggressively and Blanco started squawking terribly.  I pressed my foot again but harder next to that maltese.  Blanco quieted down, but I noticed he was bleeding some.

I attempted to grab him by his tail feathers, but he started squawking again and I jerked my hand back.  I hit that Maltese again with the handle of the rake.  Then I heard my grandma hollering at me.  She asked me what was wrong and I yelled back at her that one of the roosters was about to be killed by the dogs.  She came then as quick as she could.  She asked me which one it was and I told her it was the White Leghorn, she got mad quick and being on the outside of the lot, I gave her the rake.

Right then Blanco ran to the side where she was standing including the dog house that was inside the lot.  The Maltese and Yorkshire came running after him biting on him several times, but Grandma struck the Maltese and Yorkshire quite hard which caused them to whimper and back off.  I shoved the dog house against them so they couldn’t get him.

Grandma immediately told me to grab Blanco’s tail feathers and give him to her.  I did as I was told.  Once I gave him to her, he was hollering and she let him go and he ran off and hid under the old blue Chevrolet truck at the side of the trailer.  I ran out and locked the dog lot.  I dashed to where Blanco hid.  I looked under the truck and there was Blanco, sitting and looking directly at me.  We went back inside.  About 30 minutes later, I went back out to see if he was still under the truck.  He wasn’t.  I got kind of worried, but Grandma told me he would be alright, he was just really scared.

The next morning she told me that she had seen him walking around near the storage buildings fine as ever.  I was instantly relieved.  Later on I went out to go see him.  I examined him; the blood was gone and he had lost quite a few feathers.  But as of right now, he is doing great and stays away from the dog lot where he nearly lost his life.

Studio_Leghorn_186_LG.jpg (24 KB)

Contributer Bio: I absolutely love chickens. I’ve been around them all my life. We have a lot. I have started naming the roosters. The one in this story is Blanco.

What kind of Chicken person am I: Rural Community – 25 Chickens or less

This post was submitted by Kana Ballard.

Every morning I am greeted joyfully by ten of the goofiest, sweetest ladies. It’s not me they are happy to see. Its what I represent. Not fresh-cracked corn. They won’t touch the stuff. Bird seed or chicken pellets? They’ll eat them, but that will not gain me status.

Chickens are like chubby dinosaurs with bonnets and petticoats. I remember when they were still in the brooder. It was springtime and we were preparing the garden. We tossed a grub in to see what they would do. Those cute fuzzies dove on that grub with a bloodlust that can only be found in nature. Every time we appeared again near the brooder, they would go crazy – anticipating another grub delivery. I think they got that out of their system, roaming the yard all summer. Rolling logs, digging flower beds and assaulting every moving object within range, they did a great job caring for the lawn. This fall preparing the beds for winter, I found a few grubs and tossed them out to the chickens. They pecked and moved on. Just another moment in a day of foraging. No anticipation. No bloodlust, No status.

One night I was cooking burgers out on the grill. The chickens were making their final rounds in the back yard before heading back to the coop for the night. Now I bet you’re thinking ewww God! You fed them beef? No. Accidently, I dropped a piece of cheese. One chick pecked at it and then went wild. The others ran to it and it turned to frenzy. Cheese? Really.

I ran into the house and grabbed some shredded cheese, and tossed it around. The frenzy amplified. When I was out of cheese, they looked disappointed and somberly made their way back to the coop. The next morning, when I let them out, they circled me with an expectant buzz. “You think I have cheese?” Heads tilting back and forth, examining my hands for possible goods.

These chickens are cheese hounds. They beg for it! Sweets, my favorite in a troupe of ten, believes she has trained me. Perhaps she has. She’ll sit on my foot and arch her back waiting for me to pet her. When done, she looks on expectantly. I am a sucker. She often gets what she’s seeking.

I’ve noticed something. More cheese means more eggs. It’s an unspoken contract. If I show up with salad scraps (they love tomatoes too), I can account on about 5 eggs that day. Bird seed or cracked corn? Maybe 5. Cheese? 8 eggs easily.

I’ve experimented. Cheddar has it’s fans, The two Reds will knock the others away for that. Asagio? Not much of a draw. Shredded mozzarella? That’s the favorite. Maybe because they look and feel like little grubs. Who knows. At least I have my status back among these goofy, lovely ladies.

This post was submitted by Tom Magadieu.

It came as a real shock to find out that my chickens could tell what colors they were eating.

Some might say my chickens are spoiled. I make it a weekly mission to head to the local grocery store to see what’s available on the reduced produce rack. I can usually find enough organic lettuce and other greens to last several days. My chickens don’t care that the expiration date is near, or has passed. The lettuce is still good and provides some welcome greenery in the dead of winter. The price is right too.

I picked up a package of mixed greens one day. I anxiously brought it home and immediately took a trip out to the chicken house to deliver it. I knew the girls would welcome the treat!

My chickens have their regular gravity-type feeder for their grain, and I have a large plastic dog dish that I use for those special treats.

I emptied the bag of greens into the dog dish and stood back, as I usually do, to watch for a minute. I began to notice that the chickens were eating the green lettuce but were leaving the red leaves. I thought I must be mistaken, but I didn’t have time to find out for sure right then.

When I went back a short time later, the dish was empty except for the red lettuce leaves. The chickens didn’t eat them with the green leaves. It took several hours, but they finally did eat it. I guess if they had their druthers, they’d opt for green leaves only. Red leaves only satisfy in the abscence of green.

This post was submitted by Lynne.

It started out for me, as any other day at my home in Monkton, Vermont. I got up, brushed my teeth, got dressed and went out to help my mom with the animals. We have chickens and goats at the moment. We went through our usual routine gathering eggs from the chicken coop. I was standing outside the coop with one of the cooler eggs in my hand to show my mom. The chickens were pecking at my boots as usual, so I wasn’t really expecting anything weird to happen. But it sure did!

One of the chickens was particularly curious about the egg I was holding, and it did the most outrageous thing…..it wiggled it’s butt, stared at the egg, and JUMPED for it! It flapped and tried to get the egg, then landed back on the ground. It just wouldn’t give up! We thought it was so hilarious, that my mom ran into the house to get the camera.

It took a little coaxing, and showing it the egg some more, but it did it over and over again. We laughed until we cried. One time, another one of the chickens joined in too. When they had had enough, we gave the chickens a broken egg as reward for all of their effort and left them to their treat. It was the most eventful chicken-feeding I ‘ve ever had. How’s THAT for a chicken story? I told you we had a jumping chicken! Thanks for reading!
Sincerely,

Mikenzie Irish (age 12)

What kind of Chicken person am I: Rural Community – 25 Chickens or less

This post was submitted by Mikenzie Irish, age 12.

One day as I was walking down to the barn I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, a kind of visual commotion. Turning my head to figure out what was happening on the track on the side of the barn, I saw a Red Tailed Hawk sitting on one of my chickens.

There is something demonic about the brutal fact of one animal eating another, although of course its completely natural. But it was difficult not to see the otherwise majestic and beautiful hawk as a hideous kind of Harpie, loosed from the bowels of hell, taking not just the chicken’s meat for its survival, but its soul as well, in some sort of Twilight-for-Farm-Animals sort of a way. It was like witnessing a crime in progress, something that should not be witnessed at all.

Realizing that whatever I did would probably be too little too late, I nonetheless swung into action with a series of high-pitched screams. I hurled myself down the bank to the rescue of the hapless bird, and the hawk released its prey and flapped away with a kind of “foiled-again” shrug of his shoulders.

On closer inspection the bird revealed itself to be “Goldie” one of the children’s favorite Aracanas—a particularly golden one. She was not dead, but she was not moving, and her eyes were closed. The attacker had been perched on her back and judging by the blood on her head and coming out of her beak, the hawk had been clawing at her scalp with talons and beak.

As far as I was concerned Goldie was toast. I didn’t really see how anything could get up and walk away from such an experience. I scrambled back up the bank to fetch my gun, figuring that it would be kinder to put her out of her misery rather than let her slowly fade.

I returned two minutes later to the scene of the crime, clutching my gun, but to my surprise Goldie was gone. Had the Harpie returned to claim its lunch, from the tree where it had been watching me? When I looked around I saw something that gave me chills, for some reason. Goldie was hobbling up the bank, making, with a terrifying kind of resolve, for the safety of the coop.

It shouldn’t necessarily have given me the chills, but there was something about the sight of her that suggested Zombie: One minute she was practically dead, blood-besmirched and gaga, then she was back from dead, but not looking quite right.

I had to wonder what kind of creature we were dealing with here; chicken, yet not chicken. One who has been to the other side, and returned, changed in some essential way by her encounter with the thing that wanted to, and very nearly did, eat her.

Soon she had managed to climb the bank to the barn and was staggering like one inebriated, towards its door. I was interested to see how she would navigate the little ladder that led inside, but she hopped right onto it and disappeared.

I went round the barn to enter the coop, half expecting to see her in there devouring the other hens, in a flesh eating poultry moment.  When I opened the door I found the hens on one side of the room eying her suspiciously, and Goldie perched high up on the other side. Clearly they were awed by her initiation into the rights of life and death, her brushing off of the Wings of Death. I was awed by Goldie’s will to survive, her clawing back from the brink of death towards the light.

For a few days she hung out in the coop, not coming out with the other chickens as they foraged. Then eventually she started to venture out. Her wounds had healed, the bloody, wet spot on her head and side had dried up and her feathers had almost regained their lustre which justified her name. Within a couple of weeks she seemed to have regained control of things to be allowed back into the flock, although she was always a bit quicker to start at a strange sound, or flee for cover at the suggestion of a wheeling vulture in the sky.

And I always kept a respectful distance from her. Or should I say IT, for I never quite saw Goldie in the same light again.

Notwithstanding some of the stories around here, this one is actually true. Apparently. It concerns the curious case of Mike, the headless chicken.

On September 10, 1945 Loyd Olsen of Fruita, CO, went to the chicken coop to harvest a rooster for dinner. He chose Mike, a young Wyandotte. Unfortunately, his decapitation skills left something to be desired, and instead of killing him, he removed everything except one ear and most of the brain stem. From the evidence it seems that his head was still partially attached to his body. But not by much.

Mr. Olsen took it upon himself to continue to care for Mike, having failed to kill him. He seemed able to perch, make a kind of gargling sound, and, using a syringe and an eyedropper, he could imbibe liquid and small grains of corn.

Much of his spare time was spent “pecking” for food with his neck.

The strangest part of the story is that Mike, with his new found talents, soon began touring the country. His lease of life was not that short lived, and he managed, between his beheading and his eventual death some 18 months later, to gain five pounds.

He made the cover of Time, and Life magazines, as he toured in side shows along  with such companions as a two-headed cow.  At the height of his fame he was valued at $10,000. A wave of copy-cat beheadings swept the nation. None, however, managed to live more than a day or two.

In the spring of 1947, as the world was recovering from the war, Mike, on tour in Phoenix, succumbed to a choking fit. The Olsens had forgotten their anti-choking kit, and the Guiness Book of Records reported that his severed trachea could not take in sufficient air to survive.

How could all this have happened? Well, the Olsen axe had missed the carotid artery and a clot had prevented him from bleeding to death.  His brain stem being left largely undamaged, all the survival functions were available to Mike (breathing, heart rate, etc).

To this day, in Fruita, Colorado, Mike the headless chicken is remembered, memorialized really, on the third weekend of May which is Mike the Headless Chicken Day. Activities during the festivities include 5K Run Like a Headless Chicken Race, egg toss, and Pin the Head on the Chicken.