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.