She's a chicken, not a stripper.

After we lost one of the Lizard Twins, we knew we needed to get another chicken, as we were at the four-hen count and that’s not good. As revealed in an earlier post, we like to keep the number uneven. It’s our way of assuring each other we’ll never part – who would get the fifth chicken?

I headed to the Feed Barn to see what they had. We like the Feed Barn because we don’t want to be in the business of raising chicks, and they usually have several chickens at the four or five month stage. A hen that age is bigger, which helps minimize that pecking order problem, and she’ll be laying at about six months. They are always able to tell me the date of birth of the hen, which shows on the receipt along with the breed.

My requirements were specific. I wanted the oldest hen available which was also the heartiest in our extreme summer heat. I told the owner what I was looking for, and he that I was different; most people choose chickens by their looks. I was feeling very brainy. Then he told me that the best chicken for our weather are the Naked Necks. They are named that because they have no feathers on their necks and about 50% fewer feathers overall. They are not pretty. Please don’t have any Naked Necks, please don’t have any Naked Necks. I want a pretty hen. I am not that brainy or different, after all.

He didn’t have any Naked Necks. But he had a very interesting hybrid – a cross between a Rhode Island Red (which is what the Lizard Twin is) and a Barred-Star (these are the beautiful black and white speckled hens, much like the Barred-Rock.) He got her out of the cage and opened her wings and I felt her neck while I told him about Lizard One’s fluid build-up and we discussed possible causes. We talked about the heartiness of hybrid chickens, and then I asked what her breed is. He said a Black Sex Link. Really? When I paid, the receipt said Black Sex Link. Huh.

When I got her home I took a picture of her and sent it to Bill at work. He texted back, what is her breed? I replied, Black Sex Link, and no, it’s not a porn site. He loved it and said I should give her a stripper name, but I didn’t want a chicken named Destiny, Angel or Candy.

We named her Lucky. She is our seventh chicken, and what a lucky girl she is to be out of a cage and padding around on soft grass. She must be happy to be able to stretch her legs. She RUNS the length of the yard. Always applying airline terms, Bill says she’s been cleared to do a fast taxi.

Hensence: The owner told me to keep the new hen away from the others and introduce her to them at night, after the hens are in the coop. We did that and it seemed to help a bit in the pecking order game.

News from the yard

What a busy spring it was for our family. But the chickens didn’t seem to notice.
While we were madly careening through the last months of school, hammering on grades with tutors, juggling football (yes, the new year-round sport), workouts, personal trainers, knee surgery, driver’s education and flights to San Francisco every week for work, the chickens didn’t care. They were just busy being chickens.

While my blog responsibilities piled up, I felt too guilty to post my thoughts because my clients follow and there was ALWAYS something I owed someone. During this crazy time I thought about how stressed we were inside the house and how stress-free they were out in the yard. The spring was cool and nice, and everyone was getting along. Cori started laying pretty little green eggs right on schedule and somehow that makes her all grown up in the other hens’ opinion.

There were some days where we had maximum production; five eggs a day! School finally ended at the same day asmy big San Francisco project, and in one day we went from overdrive to summer vacation. My sister Debbie stopped by one afternoon and found me in the back yard with the chickens. While we were talking, I noticed one of the Lizard Twins was breathing heavy and had fluid build-up in her neck. It’s possible she got something stuck in her crop. I researched possible issues but we didn’t find anything that described her symptoms. Two days later, she died.

I felt terrible that I didn’t know what to do for her. I visited with Dottie at Western Ranchman and she sold me a book with great information, but our best resource to date has been blogs where people share their common sense.

Beginning with this post, I’ll be adding our tips and advice in a section called Hensense. Hopefully something I pass on will help someone else. We were sad to lose one of our big, beefy chickens. The Reds had gotten so big we changed their name to “47 Heavy”, which is the term the airline pilots of the jumbo jets like FedEx and China Air use when speaking to the tower, so they’ll have extra room when taking off. Our remaining 47 Heavy is, without a doubt, in charge in the yard, but there is no way she’ll ever get off the ground.

Hensense: I now know to add a teaspoon of apple cider vinegar to water or use a dropper of olive oil with a neck massage helps a chicken who may have something caught in the crop.

The Abundance of Easter

There seems to be a lot of conflicting messages surrounding Easter, what with plastic orbs hidden in planters and underneath back porches, hard boiled hen eggs festively colored and stacked in glass vases in upscale resort restaurants (by the way, Martha colors hers with nature’s own hues), chocolate eggs wrapped in foil and hung from white Manzanita branches, and chocolate shaped Easter bunnies with big ears and round tail--all juxtaposed with Easter lilies on alter steps, the clanging of church bells and girls and boys in the First Communion suits.

Easter is a big time here in the Valley of the Sun, with visitors escaping the last of their winter for a few days to golf, take in a Diamondbacks game, spa, sun and enjoy Easter tables laden with luscious cuisine. We know some lucky year-round residents in the Scottsdale area of palm trees, always-green grass and the easy resort lifestyle. They would like you to know that they do not appreciate the homage to the Easter Bunny. They do not believe in the Easter Bunny and know exactly where Easter Bunny eggs come from. Next year we plan to have an Open House around Easter and spring so that all those who are curious about where Easter eggs come from and all the other questions we get – will be able to visit and gather up some answers and a few eggs along the way.

Charlotte Druckman covered this egg-rich season in the Wall Street Journal last week. She reminds us that it is “easy to take eggs for granted. They’re always on the supermarket shelf when we need them, ready to do their part when a morning pancake craving or hangover-sandwich hankering hits.” (Or, in our case, when we ladle batter onto a hot waffle square or choose a brownie recipe which calls for three eggs.) She listed five amazing egg recipes from talented chefs.

But if you keep chickens, eggs are not taken for granted. They are each a perfect miracle of nature. Our Lizard Twins now lay every day – with a day off maybe once a week. (It’s called a “clutch” -- the number of eggs laid by one hen on consecutive days, before she skips a day and starts a new laying cycle.) Before these big Rhode Island Reds started laying, I was a hoarder. I didn’t offer eggs for breakfast very often and would never consider an omelet. With Mona still on some kind of egg sabbatical and Baby the only producer in the yard, we were rationing the few precious little white eggs we were given. All that changed when the Lizard twins cranked up the production schedule. Sometimes at 6 a.m. when I am opening the door to the roosting box, one of them meets me in the coop. “I can’t wait,” she says. “I don’t care if you are here or not, let me up there.”

We hope you’ll stay with us on the blog as these hens mature and begin to provide us with a steady stream of eggs. By this summer we should be getting four eggs most days. My friend Sue got a four-pack for Easter and I owe Debbie and Judy a fresh-egg breakfast. Ron's on the list for the new Cackle Doo compost -- which we never run out of.

As our table scrap vacuum cleaners would say on this special weekend, “Happy Eaters!”

An Early Easter Egg Greeting

Here is an early Easter greeting from all the chickens we know.... Click here: The Chicken!

Brown is the new white this season.

Spring colors took a different turn today, with the discovery of a beautiful brown egg. “It’s all the rage,” spectators commented.

The egg’s designer made the announcement, but no one was there to applaud, except Mother Nature, whose time clock is dialed in to perfection. The Lizard Twins were six months old on March 29.

The arrival of the new spring color changes more than a palette. The twin who produced first, once she reveals herself, does not get to go to Disneyland, but she has finally earned a name. She will be ONE, and her sister becomes TWO by default.

This brown hue is the perfect shade for a pair of soft leather sling-backs with a kitten heal and flat bow on the toe, don't you think?

A Touching Story

I'm sharing a wonderful story caught on the news and sent by my sister, Joyce, who says that this is our special smile for the day. It's about a goose named Maria and her boyfriend, who, having known her, no longer eats poultry. Take a look: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=61WkeY9Jcvw Watch how she looks at the man when he speaks to her. I know our chickens know who we are. When I am in my bathroom, even if the blinds are tilted, our chickens stretch their necks SO tall so see if they can catch a glimpse of a human in the window. So sweet. But really they just want attention and food, unlike Maria, who is all about love.

Mona's Spring Break

Last week was Spring Break here. It felt more like summer, though, with the temperature up to 95 degrees. When chickens are stressed a little, they quit laying. Changes in weather can do this, so when we saw a little reduction in our egg production, I thought maybe it was the weather. To get ready for Mark’s highly-anticipated Spring Break party and do a little spring cleaning, we put Mark in charge of power washing the back patio so we could move his weight rack outside. For three days the loud buzzing of the power washer droned on (when he wasn’t “taking a break”) and the chickens were not happy. They moved their base of operation around the back of the coop, in the Outback, as we call it. Not a comfortable spot for chicken feet, rocks and warm pavement and all. Mona quit laying. Baby took a few days off, too. On the day of the party, a dozen 15 year-old boys arrived early to start the party. They zip lined over the pool. They threw each other into the pool and beat each other with pool noodles. They were loud, and their pool toys flew over the chicken yard fence.

“Chickens don’t like spring break. No eggs today,” we said.

Then the girls arrived, and the party moved to the hot tub. The chickens tiptoed along the side of their coop, like burglers, one at a time, hoping to go unnoticed. The girls squealed, “Chickens!” The hens waited until after dark – unheard of for a chicken, to go to bed. The following day it was business as usual in the chicken yard. It was a breezy day and all the noise was gone. Baby laid an egg. Mona seemed to be on strike. I read about a woman who gives her chickens milk in the afternoon to provide them with calcium. We gave them a pie pan of milk and the chickens didn’t know what to make of it. A completely white dish. Where’s the food? The meal worms? What are we looking for? They circled the pan nervously, so we added some layer. Ah, there’s the food – and with that, they became milk lovers. They all pecked at the layer and then tilted their head back and drank the cool milk. “This will surely get Mona back on schedule,” I said. But no egg. My sister Joyce told me that horses are afraid of two things; things that move and things that don’t. Chickens are afraid of everything, but like horses, they don’t like change unless it is their idea. I started thinking about why Mona was not laying. Maybe it was because we haven’t changed the hay in the roosting boxes. Now that the Lizard Twins have been taught not to roost in there, we don’t need to change it very often. Maybe Mona needs fresh hay? I walked around the Outback to the tarp where we keep our bale and lifted the corner. There were three Mona eggs. Mona hadn’t been on strike. She had just left home for a few days. She was on Spring Break.

Mona and her miracle eye

Something happened to Mona’s eye and it hurts me to think about it, so it’s taken a while to write this.

We don’t know exactly why, but Mona had a serious eye issue. It could have been that she got pushed up against a sharp piece of the fence and didn’t see where she was because of her floppy crown, and Bill is quietly beating himself up over that. Or, she could have gotten an infection. We don’t know.

One morning I said, “Mona’s gotten into something wet or greasy because her neck is all gooey.” I didn’t figure it out until later in the day when I caught a glimpse of her eye. It was awful. She’d been rubbing her face on her neck.

We caught her to observe the injury. Without a degree in Chickenology, we weren’t sure of our next step. Bill said, “Well, do you want to take her to the vet?” I knew this would cost more than $200; we just took our ferret to the vet for a routine this and that and it was $143.
Mona cost $18.

We decided we would monitor the situation. It got worse, and that’s when we decided to lance her eye, with the help of some advice from the folks at the feed store and some medications. We sent up a prayer to Robbie, our good friend and our family Grandpa who passed away last year. He was a practicing veterinarian for many years and gave Bill the most amazing garage tools, but he also gave him his remaining vet utensils. We loved the little boxes and labels, but we never imagined we would use any of them.

Bill sterilized a #10 scalpel, and we assembled our items: latex gloves, saline solution, the antibiotic ointment, and a soft bath towel. Then we had a drink. The idea of cutting open an eye, our moaning Mona’s eye, was just a little unnerving.

We chose the end of the day, Bill’s idea, so that there would be no chickeny distractions (food, another chicken, more food, something she’s missing). I set up the operating room—two lawn chairs, one a little lower than the other, and went to visit Mona. My son was concerned. He was thinking this kind of thing must be against the law and just couldn't watch, but couldn't leave us alone, either. He was all over the operation, flailing his arms and adding commentary. This was not the best scenario for a doctor's steady hand. Or even an airplane mechanic pretending to be a doctor.

As soon as Bill touched her eye, the area opened up and revealed a nasty, marble-sized hard piece of hurt that popped out, followed by what I thought was a lot of blood, for a chicken. Then Bill cut away some tissue and what we thought for certain was her eye.

We cleaned the area and pumped it full of our medication. She no longer moved her feet or tried to get out of my grip. I dabbed and waited. After a few minutes, I moved her back up to her roost and even though she was a little wobbly, she was able to wrap her toes around the pole.
We talked a lot about Mona that night, and sure hoped to see her in the yard the next morning.

We did! We watched the eye area closely and to our amazement, her eyelid opened after a few days to reveal her eye! She can’t see out of it and misses out on a treat if she’s facing the wrong way, but we are thankful that she’s still with us. She gives us a petite egg almost every day.

The New Girl

Meet Cori. She’s the new girl. When she moved, they told her everything would be fine and she’ll make new friends. We’ve all been told that and we know how “not fine” it can be.

Friday was her first day. The other girls didn’t like her and wouldn’t let her into their little clique. “She’s so different," they moaned. “Not at all like us.”

Cori IS different. Her head and feet are bigger than her body. She nervously picks at herself, a habit, I think, from living in close quarters in a cage. Somehow all of her tail feathers are gone. She looks like the cab of a semi with no trailer behind.

Cori is an Americana and will lay bluish green eggs. Americanas are sometimes called Easter Eggers. We thought Bunny would be a good name, but she’s not the type. She is a dozen autumn colors all mixed into a pattern. She’s a scrappy tomboy. She’s coriander.

Cori spent her first two days looking at herself in the mirror, missing her friends, and stayed behind the coop and close to the wall.

The first two nights Cori nonchalantly headed into the coop early and arranged herself on the roost. Maybe she’s thinking she’ll blend in. Or maybe she’s exhausted. Being the new girl will do that. The first night she put up a good argument as to why she should be there, but teenage girls can be mean. A Lizard Twin moved her out. She tried to roost on the water jug, on the light, and finally on a tiny window ledge. She just wanted to be in there somewhere with the other girls. Bill said “she’ll figure it out.” (I set up camp in the back shed and carry her in there.)

She doesn’t know how to drink from the automatic water feeder and on her first day, she panted all day. Bill said she would figure that out. (I set out a pie pan of water.)

The Lizard Twins wouldn’t let her get close to the treats we give them, like strawberry tops and apple cores. She’ll figure it out, Bill said. (I gave her a serving by the pan of water.)

This morning I looked outside and saw Mona sitting close to her at the mirror. Mona is not the most popular girl or the prettiest, but she has a big heart and she made the first move to include Cori in the group.

Now Cori is in the middle of the yard with Mona. She’s figuring it out.

Meet the Lizard Twins.

Our pullet Rhode Island Reds are almost six months old and will be laying big, brown eggs soon.
When we were on the way to get them last December, I thought of really cute coppery names for them, but the ones we picked are identical twins. We waited and waited to find something – anything – that would help us tell them apart, so we could call them by name. It took three months and this photo captures it. One of them has a habit of standing on one leg. And her legs are a brighter shade of yellow. She’s also the one who chases the doves out of the yard, that pecking order thing again. Didn’t matter – it was too late. They are one name. Lizzard twins. A closer inspection reveals a creature from prehistoric times.

Good readers, these chickens are creepy, but our beautiful buffs don’t seem to notice. Now that everyone’s all grown up in size, this little group gets along very well. You can see one of the buffs and the other Lizard Twin having a morning at the dirt spa in the photo.

It's too soon to say goodbye.

I went out to feed the chickens this morning and they were quiet, nobody seemed interested in me.

Blackie was dead in the chicken coop. She was laying in the hay underneath her roost.

When I came inside the collect myself and the things I would need to take care of her, I watched the chickens go back into the coop and approach her. The red twins were confused and scared and Baby stood over her until I came back out.

Our lovely Hen Noir.

What's In a Name?

Before I became a mother, I sat across the isle from a man on an airplane once who was an expert on the behaviors of children in relationship to birth order. He had a captive audience of anyone within ear shot for an hour, and fellow passengers asked questions to get some free advice. The topic turned to naming children. He talked about research that shows a correlation between people with strong names in great careers, and people with soft, quiet names often times being overlooked for big, corporate jobs.

In his speeches, he warned parents about setting an expection or requirement within a child's name. He used Precious, as an example, Treasure, and Tomorrow. And Candy, who, even as Candace, might not become CEO. And Reed, the boy who doesn't play sports. And Thor, the boy who does. And Jane, who's plain. And Dick. I've worked for him before. I chose names carefully for my boys.

I was given the job of naming our chickens. It's a big responsibility. The names should fit the chicken's personality. How can I name them when I've just met them? I was under some pressure, because I hesitated with our Blackie, and now she's just Blackie.

Our third Minorca chicken was almost identical to Mona, but prettier. She was timid and stayed close to her sister/friends. I named her Baby. This name has proven to be the worst choice I could have made. Apparently she's never heard of the expert's reasoning. She is not a baby. She is a bully. When the new red pullets arrived, she's the chicken who demonstrated "pecking order." She pecked on their heads, trying to peck their eyes out. She refused to allow them in the yard at all. She chased them down and kept them from the food. She ran them out of the coop. We had to create a makeshift loft in a shed until they were bigger. Their breed is larger than Minorcas, and now they are bigger than Baby, but they are still afraid of her. She is a barnyard thug. She's defient and always a little pissy.

I'm changing her name to Bully.

Hen Noir

Our black Minorca chicken came along in the box when we originally went to pick out two chickens. She was an afterthought, creating the all-important odd number.

I went about the task of naming the chickens. Mona was easy. She moans. At the time, Baby seemed quiet and a little hesitant. Our black chicken deserved a very special name, but before I could come up with it, Blackie was pinned on her like a curse. I did not like the name Blackie! “It sounds like a name given to a puppy by a little boy,” I said. “It’s an old horse’s name.” Not creative. Basic black. Blackie started to stick. I did not like it at all. I decided to call her Hen Noir to help her feel more sophisticated. I say 'Hen Noir' when she follows me.

She is really something special. Her features are classic. She is black except for the white spot around her ear which indicates the color of her eggs. Her legs and feet are the color of charcoal and they look like the smooth leather of an expensive purse. She is so black, that in the sun, some of her feathers look green. I’ve seen a Harley-Davidson motorcycle that is so dark green, it looks black, except in the sun. If she were in the military, she'd be Special Ops. Other chickens keep just a little distance, although she has never had a bad day.

She talks in an aloof, soft voice, always asking a question. Puh puh puh? Puh puh puh?

She’s a wanderer. Even though we trimmed one wing on each, our hens were lopsidedly flapping over the little fence, so we added filament to the top. One little string keeps everyone in place, except our Houdini. She lets herself out daily – we have never seen her do it – but she doesn’t seem to know how to get back over the fence. We’ll find her milling around the gate and one of us will open it for her. One night after dark, she gave up waiting on us to let her go home and roosted on the handlebar of my bicycle.

At first we thought she was getting out to enjoy the “dirt spa”, a patch of dirt where she and her sister/friends would roll around and take a dirt bath. “They need a dirt spa,” Bill said. Yes, their needs are instantly met. He’s partial to the chickens. The boys who live in our house are jeolous of the girls who live in the coop.

Even with the dirt spa, extra space in the compound and fresh alfalfa weekly in their coop, Blackie still lets herself to do a little roaming. We think when she’s fully grown we’ll take our traveler to the State Fair.

After I wrote this, I went to the kitchen to make dinner. A pointy black tail slowly cruised by the back door like an airline jet on a taxi way. Ugh. Someone had to go put Blackie back in the fence. Mark went out and came right back in. “What's the problem? She’s inside the fence," he said. Hen Noir Houdini. She is the smartest chicken in the yard.

Don't be a Chicken

When danger is lurking – or simply when a shadow creeps over the grass, or the wind rustles some leaves -- the chickens do not scream THE SKY IS FALLING and become cartoon actresses. They stand still. If they can make it, they’ll sprint for home, but if they’re in a vulnerable spot in the compound, they stop. It’s nature’s way of keeping them alive.

Recently I looked out the window and saw all the chickens in a freeze-frame. The new pullets were in a corner of the coop. If there’d been a bed, they would have been under it. Our pretty buffs were statues along the wall and our black beauty was out of eyesight. What the heck? I flung open the door and walked to the fence. Nobody moved. This was not right.

We saw a hawk circling in the sky a few weeks before. A year ago we would have marveled at it in the bird bath outside my office window. Now, anything larger than chickens is a threat. When we first saw him, our chickens were enjoying a free-range stroll and they sequestered themselves under some thorny bushes. They didn’t come out for hours and I couldn’t go in. So that’s why a shadow spooks them. It’s danger in the sky.

There he was, sitting on the block wall fence, right above the chicken coop, blending in with the gray speckle of the block! I didn't see him at first, because he was perfectly still. For a few seconds, I froze, like—like a chicken.

He slowly turned his head and looked at me, then he dropped down on the other side of the wall, accompanied by the tiny sound of a rustling sheet. Perhaps he wasn't after our little reds after all, but the new kittens in the neighborhood.

Now those Rhode Island Reds are bigger than the other hens…too big to be carried off by a predator. Our neighbor was concerned, because his cat likes to patrol at night, but by that hour the girls are all tucked up in their roost.

I am surprised at how quiet and still danger can be. We sometimes say, hey, don’t be a chicken. Well, hey, sometimes be one.

Meet Mona. Mona moans.

Each of our hens has a unique personality. From the day we brought her and the other buff and black chickens home in a cardboard box, Mona was different.

We read in children’s books what sounds animals make. Some storytellers get it right. Some dogs really do sound like a woof! Some cats have been caught on film saying “I love you” and singing “Rock a bye, baby” but many do put out a meow. Birds tweet most of the time and now, so do millions of humans. Chickens do not say cluck cluck.

We can’t say what the NORM is for our chickens; each is unique, but Mona moans. It’s more like a scolding nag while jogging. One might interpret is as,
“Where-have-you-been-I-could-have-fainted-waiting-for-this-treat.” Sometimes she sounds like a car transmission going out, other times just the starter turning over.

Mona tells us if she’s laid an egg, if anyone else has laid an egg, how late we are to feed, how desperate she is for attention, if it’s hot out, cold or windy, and that another chicken got more at dinner than she did. But she does not cluck. She’s a moaner. She is so loud that I am afraid our neighbors will secretly throw a mean tomcat into the yard.

I wanted to return her but we would have only had two chickens, and even numbers in the chicken coop are not good. (Please refer to the intro blog.) She is so needy that she rushes the human leg in the coop and does the best cat impression I’ve ever seen—when the cat keeps you from taking a step. Realizing that she doesn’t know which way we are going to step, she stops. Hunkers down. We started reaching down and patting her. Pat, pat, moan. Pat, pat, moan. I think we’ve trained her that if she gets down, we’ll scratch her neck and pat her. Other hens look at her, then cock their head up and look at us, then down again. They wonder what in the world is wrong with her.

There’s one more thing. Her crown doesn’t stand up, it flops over to one side, making her look a little disheveled. A loud, needy, clumsy, busybody on a bad hair day. She would use a cell phone in a crowded waiting room and have 22 grocery items in the express line. But she has a good heart, she was tolerant of the younger additions when they moved in, she’s a good companion to her sisters, she’s a hard worker (she lays an egg almost every day) and she stops whatever she is doing to say hello.

And in this world you don't often find these attributes.

Chicken CPR - Jay Leno : CoolestOne.Com

Starting off with a laugh


There is no chicken story better than this one, some years ago on Jay Leno, when a guest and her chicken joined Terry Bradshaw. Watch Terry; he's always welcome at any party of mine.







Chicken CPR - Jay Leno : CoolestOne.Com

Hen Power

We have chickens. Our sons say that the chickens have us. They're likely right, because the chickens have created this blog. Some say "there's a book inside everyone." Not me, I'd answer. Recently I thought -- maybe a blog. There's so much to know about chickens, so much to pass on! So much we didn't know to begin with, so much we are finding out, thanks to blogs!

We cook. Cooks produce kitchen scraps. Chickens eat kitchen scraps. Chickens lay eggs. The new, warm eggs are set in the special chicken bowl with a folded paper towel for cushion. We cook. See how that works?

A few weeks ago, Elizabeth Gliddens wrote a story for the New York Times about raising chickens in the city, and that one of her chickens was stolen. It was probably this article that compelled me to begin the Chicken Coop Cafe blog. Elizabeth describes her view of chickens this way: And what’s not to love? There’s something intrinsically happy about a chicken. The name: a little hiccup in the mouth. The shape: a jaunty upswing of feathers, a grin. The ceaseless bobbing, scratching, pecking. It’s nearly impossible to feel melancholy in the company of chickens. They are a balm for the weary urban soul.

She's right. They are jaunty and so entertaining. Because this is relatively new to us, sometimes in the late afternoon we'll pull up an old lawn chair leaning up against the porch wall and watch our show. Personalities bloom. Talents are revealed. Pecking orders established.

We have five hens, and technically, they are pullets. We started with three (and no, we are not like the crazy cat lady found with 80 cats and a room full of newspapers.) There is a reason for five. We wanted Rhode Island Reds, known for their steady laying. And we didn't want chicks--too much work, although now I know that if you get them as chicks, they are much more like pets. (And, UPS will deliver them!) We were interested in chickens just about ready to begin laying. The little feed store didn't have Reds, but they had three picturesque Minorcas -- two buff and one black. We loved the buffs. We took the black to make the number uneven by design. Having an uneven number means we can never call it quits on our relationship -- who gets the extra chicken?

We returned a few months later and they had two Rhode Island Reds, about three months old. We brought them home and introduced them to the others. And that's when we learned about pecking order.

Chickens are a simple life lesson, and as they teach, I will share.