Barnyard Mayhem

Let me set one thing straight right from the start. We chickens are far more intelligent than you might have imagined. Yes, our males’ behavior may be pathetically stupid and obnoxious, and a few specific evolutionary constraints may disadvantage us somewhat. But, putting aside those paltry limitations, we hens are quite capable of sophisticated refinement.

My own dear Aunt Mildred Pennymaker was a perfect example. She possessed the most delightful intellect one could ever hope to encounter. Her reputation as the philosopher fowl bordered on fame and spread to flocks far and wide. Her insightful contemplations brought us all a new appreciation for the feather as an elegantly simple metaphor for life. Repetitive fractal-like structures and patterns that helped us all find new purpose and meaning.

Mildred brought to light the strength and freedom represented in winged flight and helped us all see how it ultimately rests upon the lowly feather. This timeless wisdom gave us a new appreciation for the seemingly insignificant details. She showed us how they reflect the fundamental nature of our very existence. Thanks to her, we have all learned to preen with more pride.

To your eyes, we poultry may look like cowardly, egg-laying machines. Let me assure you, there is more to us than is readily apparent. Inwardly, we possess traits that you will likely never fully fathom. This is precisely why I have undertaken this task. Although I am but a single hen, I feel compelled to document certain events that transpired among our population recently.

It all began early on a Thursday morning. Bernadine and Roxanne were side by side scratching in the pen in hopes of finding a grub or two for a quick bite of breakfast. Roxanne is quite possibly the strongest scratcher in the entire flock. She practically digs furrows in the dirt floor of the pen. With a single sweep of her powerful thigh muscle, she plucked the entire juicy length of an enormous earthworm from the dirt. It hardly had an opportunity to squirm before a second pass of Roxanne’s talons neatly sliced it into three juicy, beak-sized morsels. Each hen then grabbed up a piece to enjoy. This left the third little writhing segment ungobbled on the ground.

Racing from all the way across the pen Edna swooped in, just in time to scoop up the little wriggling prize out from under Roxanne’s beak. Then, lest one of the other hens snag it away from her, she streaked back across the pen to enjoy it to herself.

The rising sun just happened to have topped the line of trees as Edna began her racing to-and-fro across the pen. Her rusty auburn colored wing feathers reflected the sun’s rays at just the right angle to make them a bright fiery red catching the bull’s attention across the barnyard.

Now, if you want to compare the relative intellectual prowess of all the animals around the barnyard, the bull will likely come in somewhere just below the bit of earthworm still squirming in Edna’s beak. Nonetheless, the red streak of Edna’s wings triggered a tiny network of brain cells in the old bull’s cranium causing him to suddenly go into a rage. He began pawing the ground and snorting and raising all manner of commotion. Then, without warning, he began a headlong charge at our pen.

As it turned out, the farmer’s old mare had been casually munching her oats while this little drama played itself out. The nature of horses is that at times, they spook at the smallest provocation. The hulk of beef lumbering across the barnyard must have been more than sufficient to startle the poor girl who began bucking and running about herself whinnying in a most terrified manner. While turning this way and that and kicking her heels up in the air she happened to kick her oat bucket in just the right way for it to go flying. It tumbled end over end across the yard and was caught in mid-air on one of the bull’s considerable horns in such a way that it blinded his right eye.

The bull’s rage instantly shifted into fear as he lacked the observational awareness to realize what had happened. Not being able to see from his right eye he began turning in circles to his right. His careening frame eventually made its way to our pen and the posts and chicken wire proved to be no match for his massive weight moving at such a considerable speed. One entire corner of the pen was torn off leaving a gaping hole.

This turn of events was quite enough to send the entire flock into a tizzy of flapping and squawking with feathers flying. After escaping the general area of damage to the pen we reconvened some 15 yards closer to the barn. We collectively watched in horror at what happened next.

As it turned out, the bull’s left horn managed to get tangled up in the chicken wire of the pen and, discovering he was immobilized, his mood instantly transitioned back from fear to rage once more. By the time he managed to free himself there was little left of the pen, the coop and 10 yards of fencing that fell victim to his violence.

In closing farmer Phillip, we hens wish to convey our deepest regrets for what befell your barnyard on Thursday. Still, my sister hens and I wanted to inform you that we had little to do with any of the disaster and hope there will be no reprisals as a result of this catastrophe.

With Deepest Regrets,

The Hens of Phillip’s Farm